


Abide

by pr0nz69



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Animal Play, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BDSM, Begging, Bondage, Break the Cutie, Captivity, Cock Bondage, Cock Cages, Collars, Consent Issues, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Edging, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Erotic Licking, Extremely Dubious Consent, Femdom, Foot Jobs, Forced Chastity, Forced Ejaculation, Forced Masturbation, Forced Orgasm, Forced Submission, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Human Furniture, Humiliation, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Mental Instability, Multi, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Torture, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Groping, Non-Consensual Spanking, Obedience, Objectification, Omorashi, Orgasm Denial, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Prisoner of War, Public Humiliation, Punishment, Puppy Play, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, Sadism, Self-Harm, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Politics, Sexual Torture, Torture, Whipping, Whump, forced stripping, ruined orgasm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2018-09-27 20:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 65,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10046960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pr0nz69/pseuds/pr0nz69
Summary: "Under the terms of surrender, you are obligated to keep me alive," Alfonse warns."Of course I will keep you alive, little prince," Veronica says. "After all, you wouldn't be much fun to me dead. Oh yes, you should know that I keep all of my playthings in fair condition--barring a little bit of..."She pauses here, pretending to think up an appropriate term."Rough play."---Princess Veronica knows her father wanted her to unite the world of Zenith under the Emblian flag, but he never saw that pretty little prince from Askr. Conquering a kingdom is tedious work, though, and she's been awfully lonely lately...---Chapter 13:He regrets everything. He regrets submitting to Veronica, regrets surrendering himself to Embla at all. He should have fought. He should have fought to his death, to his kingdom's death. It's what an honorable man would have done, what Father would have done.Thiswas cowardly, an artificial way to preserve his own life to the benefit of none. No--not preserve it but merely prolong it; both he and his kingdom survive on borrowed time, and he has known it from the start.





	1. Captive Prince

**Author's Note:**

> Written by pr0nz69 the younger.
> 
> This literally all started because of Alfonse's stupid sexy clothing damage. So you have Kozaki Yusuke to thank for this.

Princess Veronica doesn't even wait until they're off the battlefield before she divests him of his armor; she wants the others to see her do it, Kiran, Anna, his own sister. Alfonse watches them with flushed countenance as her soldiers strip him almost bare. His tunic and trousers have already been cut close to tatters; the pale flesh of his thighs shows through where even his smallclothes have been sliced apart. He stares down at himself because he can't bear to lift his head and face his companions, not in this disgraceful state.

But they're not watching him, they're busy screaming out at Princess Veronica, impressing on her that he's royalty, and captive or no, he must be treated as such. He surrendered himself willingly upon defeat, they remind her--or as willing as exchanging one's life for the peace of the kingdom can be considered--but she doesn't heed them. She has the audacity, even, to come up beside him and lightly slap his face--for speaking without permission, she informs him (he only meant to reassure the others that this is okay, that _he_ is okay). It isn't painful and isn't meant to be; it's a show of power, and her aim is to humiliate, not to hurt. He hates to acknowledge that she succeeds in it, too.

Once she has him disarmed, Veronica does not linger. Her soldiers are quick to manacle his wrists before him, and then he's bound by a long stretch of chain to the back of her horse, to walk behind her as her prisoner. He doesn't look back at his friends as they begin to move; he doesn't want their last memory of him to be with his eyes unsettled and his cheeks hot with shame. Instead, he straightens his back, squares his shoulders, holds his head high, and generally tries to look princely and dignified even as he feels like the lowliest wretch. It's only once he’s certain they are out of view of the others that he finally deflates, exhaustion and resignation overtaking him.

They make their way through the lawless wilds and into Emblian territory, over green-grass hills and across swaths of hardy farmland. They move at a steady clip, and though Alfonse has to pay particular attention to his own pace lest he be pulled--or _dragged_ \--he can’t help but take in all of the idylls of the landscape as they pass. Askr is replete with natural beauty, but Embla, with its high-rising mountains and patchwork of blue-white streams, doesn’t appear to be lacking in any significant way. He can't fathom the princess's envy of his kingdom’s aesthetic when hers can scarcely be called inferior.

Before long, a thick fog settles over the valley, obscuring even the princess's horse before him. He can only walk blindly forward, listening for hoofbeats muted by the mud, feeling for a tug at his lead to direct him. He ends up taking the chain into his hands and holding it taut to use as a guide. Meanwhile, the cavalry takes advantage of the fog’s cover to taunt him, poking and slapping his legs with the butts of their spears, trying to trip him up, until the princess herself notices and orders them to stop. Alfonse is almost appreciative until she says, "Any bruises upon his body I'd like to place there myself."

"Under the terms of surrender, you are obligated to keep me alive," he warns her, trying to reestablish even a bit of power for himself.

"Of course I will keep you alive, little prince," she says, and the diminutive incenses him. "After all, you wouldn't be much fun to me dead. Oh yes, you should know that I keep _all_ of my playthings in fair condition--barring a little bit of..." She pauses here, pretending to think up an appropriate term. "Rough play," she settles on at last, and dread and resentment roil in the pit of his stomach.

"There is the expectation that I will be treated humanely," he counters weakly, for no clause in the terms of surrender stipulates that he must be, and as the one who drafted them, she is more than aware.

"I will keep you alive," she repeats ominously, and then adds, "Now, do not speak unless you are given express permission to do so. As much as it would amuse me to punish you, I can't imagine you share the sentiment. So for your own sake"--he can hear the smile in her voice--"be a good boy."

Alfonse grits his teeth and bites back a retort. He hates her threats, her self-assurance, her condescending sense of superiority. But he understands his own situation, too, enough to keep himself from jeopardizing it needlessly. He is her captive now, her veritable property (the thought makes him sick), and it doesn't matter whether he likes it or not. By the agreement he himself signed--willingly, by all appearances, but truthfully without much of a choice at all--his fate now is to follow her in every order, no matter how unpalatable. So he falls silent and prays to every god he knows that his companions will follow through on their promise to find a way to bring him home.

When it begins to rain, showing no sign of letting up, they stop and make camp for the night. Alfonse is left tied to the horse, shivering in his torn clothes while the wind and rain lash against him and a city of tents is erected around him. At some point, a mounted party comes into view on the horizon, riding toward them from the direction in which they came, and for a moment, he is elated to think it's his own army come to take him back. But as the party nears, his heart falls when he realizes it's only the masked man and Xander and a collection of other soldiers loyal to the princess. Without sparing so much as a glance at him, both men dismount and make their way to Princess Veronica's tent, disappearing within.

Alfonse resists the urge to sink to his knees. Against the princess's wishes, his legs are mottled with bruises, both from the ill-fated battle that landed him here and from the spears her own soldiers used against him. He wants to sit down and rest them, but he won't show weakness like this, won't let her think he's so easily broken. Still, he's tired from walking and fighting, and it's getting harder to stay standing, even as he partly leans on the horse to try and keep his balance. He thinks about his four-poster bed back at the palace and even his decidedly less comfortable field cot. He wonders where he'll be sleeping tonight and if he'll even be able to.

He only realizes he was dozing where he stood when heavy footsteps wake him from his trance. Blearily, he looks up to find the masked man staring down at him, too close for comfort. He hastily steps back, tripping over his own chain, and his stiff legs won't comply with his body in time to correct his fall. The man's there in an instant, catching him by the arm and yanking him back upright, supporting the brunt of his weight as his legs finally give out under him.

"You again," Alfonse breathes, head flopping forward as the man moves to hold him under the arms while unhooking his chain from the horse's saddle. "Why didn't you just join our cause? I see no benefit in aiding the likes of her..."

" _You_ do not need to see any such benefit," is the curt response, and then: "Walk."

It's difficult to get his feet moving again, but with the man's help, Alfonse manages to make it to the entrance of Princess Veronica's tent, his chain dragging like a weight between his legs. The man opens the tent flap and guides him in, keeping him steady by a grip on the shoulder as he steps in after him.

The tent is spacious and warm, to Alfonse's immediate relief, its walls hung with furs and its floor spread with pelts and plush rugs. In the center burns a magical fire, shading the canvas a pale green, and in the back corner is a cot that's more of a bed with its rich silk sheets and heavy quilts. Alfonse stares at it longingly until he realizes Princess Veronica is watching him from the other side of the fire, an amused glint in her eye.

"How are you feeling, little prince of Askr?" she asks innocently, rising to meet them. "You're looking rather ragged."

Alfonse catches her in his gaze, eyes narrowing into a partial glare. "I'm as well as can be expected in a situation like this, Princess," he says frigidly. Veronica chuckles.

"Yes, yes, I can see that you're not looking your princeliest." She gestures to the rugs on the floor, indicating that he sit. "Go ahead and strip. I've already sent for a cleric to come and clean you and see to your wounds."

In spite of himself, Alfonse blushes. "Princess Veronica," he says quickly, "I cannot have a woman, let alone one your age, see me... see me..." He trails off, too flustered to continue. Veronica merely raises an eyebrow.

"Very well, foolish prince." She steps around the fire to retrieve a cloak that lay abandoned on the ground and throws it around herself. "Since it's your first night and I'm much too tired to entertain your silly modesty, I will let it slide for the time being. Next time, however, I expect to see you-- _all_ of you." She looks pointedly at the tears in his trousers, at the tracks of his thighs showing through, and he turns redder. Then she pulls up her hood and addresses the masked man. "Bruno. Have him cleaned and ready by the time I return from mess. I am tired and do not wish to be kept up much longer."

"Yes, Princess Veronica," the masked man--Bruno--replies, and he steps aside, allowing the princess to quit the tent. As soon as she's gone, he returns his attention to Alfonse, roughly knocking him to the ground. "You heard Her Majesty. Disrobe."

Alfonse swallows his anger and gingerly maneuvers himself onto his backside. "How am I to do that when you have not released me from my restraints?" He holds up his bound hands pointedly, and Bruno grabs them, fumbling at his belt for a key before finally unlocking the manacles. Alfonse retracts his hands to his chest, rubbing the numbness out of his wrists. Bruno watches him expectantly, but even now that he's been freed, he can't get himself to strip before this man.

"Could you at least offer me the dignity of turning away so that I can undress in private?" he halfheartedly asks, already knowing what the answer will be. This, too, is meant to humiliate him, to break him down into something less than human.

This time, Bruno doesn't even humor him with a response. Instead, he crouches down, hovering over him with a blade drawn from his belt as he quickly and crudely hacks away what's left of Alfonse's clothes. Alfonse keeps still throughout, fearful that the knife will meet with his flesh should he attempt to struggle. His hands surge to cover his groin the moment Bruno steps away, and his legs slide together to further guard his modesty. A gust of wind pushes through the tent flap, chilling him as the fire flickers beside him.

The cleric appears a moment later, an elderly woman toting a bucket filled with what must be rainwater. Alfonse tries to retreat further into himself, but Bruno must have used some form of dark magic against him, for he suddenly finds that he has lost control of his muscles and can neither move nor speak. He's helpless to resist as the woman bends him this way and that, checking for wounds.

"Nothing so serious as to require the use of a stave," she says gruffly, tossing aside his limp arm as if it were that of a rag doll. She wets a washcloth in the bucket and begins to clean him. Alfonse keeps his eyes tightly shut throughout, trying not to tremble from both the cold of the water on his skin and the discomfort of having this woman and Bruno see every intimate part of him. She doesn't shy away, either, startling him when he feels the heavy dampness of the cloth against his privates. He's certain his face is as bright as any day-lily as she brusquely scrubs between his legs, and the thought that were the water not so cold, he might not remain in control of his body mortifies him.

At last, the woman finishes, winding a few bandages over his more severe cuts (one of which, on the inside of his left thigh, is uncomfortably close to his crotch, he notes with chagrin) before clambering to her feet and quitting the tent without another word. Bruno barely glances at him as he tosses down a new garment, but he does look up at Alfonse's noise of discontent upon examining the thing. The item is a drab tan gown made of a coarse, pliable weave, and it's so short that it barely reaches mid-thigh when he stands in it.

"Where are my smallclothes?" he asks, tugging at the hem of the gown in a vain attempt to lengthen it.

"This is what Her Majesty ordered," Bruno says simply, daring him to argue. "Would you like me to let her know you are dissatisfied with the conditions of your stay so soon?"

"This is indecent," Alfonse objects, helplessly. "Please, you must bring me something to wear underneath this." He pulls on the gown again to emphasize how short it is, how it just barely covers his intimate parts.

"This may be difficult for a spoiled prince like you to understand," Bruno says icily, stepping up to him, "but you don't give the orders around here."

Alfonse flushes, feeling foolish in spite of how reasonable he knows his request is. Bruno lays his hands heavily on his shoulders, forcing him down onto his knees. It's then that Alfonse notices the coil of rope at his belt, and he fidgets uncomfortably as Bruno reaches for it.

"Put your hands behind your back."

"I signed the terms of surrender," Alfonse says, clenching his fists. "I have no intention of breaking that contract by running off."

"I didn't ask about that," Bruno says, his voice dangerously low. "I ordered you to put your hands behind your back."

Still, Alfonse hesitates. "Please," he all but begs. "I don't need to be bound. I won't cause any trouble. You have my word."

Bruno reaches a hand forward, and Alfonse flinches away. But the man only touches his face, surprisingly gently. "Princess Veronica has ordered that no harm is to befall you without her consent." His warm, calloused fingers brush against Alfonse's cheek. "But if you do not desist in your prideful, foolhardy obstinacy, then I will have no choice but to show violence against you in order to make you comply." His hand suddenly curves under his jaw, and he grips it with a startling pressure that makes Alfonse grunt in pain. "I will not repeat myself again. Put your hands behind your back."

Fuming, humiliated, Alfonse obeys, and Bruno releases his face, maneuvering his own body until he's crouching behind him. Alfonse clenches his teeth as he feels Bruno loop the rope around his left wrist, cinch it tight, and then pull it up over his right shoulder and across his neck.

"You'll strangle me," he gasps in a moment of panic, but Bruno seems unconcerned.

"Not if you don't struggle," he says evenly, bringing the rope down the other side of Alfonse's neck while folding his right arm into the small of his back above the left. He winds the rope several times around his wrist and then around both in a figure eight. Then he brings it around the other side of his neck, pulls it taut, and secures it, somehow, at his back, leaving the excess to serve as a sort of lead. Alfonse tests the bonds, mostly out of morbid curiosity, and finds them secure and unyielding. Even struggling just a little puts a suffocating pressure on his neck.

Bruno helps him to his feet, and almost immediately after, the tent flap opens and in steps the princess. She smiles when she sees them, an eerie, gratified look that makes Alfonse's skin crawl. He's once again made aware of his distressingly short garment as Veronica's eyes travel over him, hovering noticeably on his mostly bare thighs.

"Good work," she says to Bruno, who merely nods. "But I'm tired from warring all day and do not much feel like playing with him tonight." She offers a theatrical yawn, then makes a shooing motion with her hand. "Take him away. Make sure to tie his feet so he can't run."

"Princess," Alfonse interjects coldly, "as I've just finished telling him, I have no designs to attempt escape. I don't wish to see my kingdom razed in exchange for my freedom."

Veronica looks at him oddly for a moment, as if considering something she had never thought of before. Then she grins wide, stretching her face almost grotesquely. "Tie his feet," she repeats, "because I'd like to see the honorable prince of Askr squirm--perhaps literally."

Alfonse can feel his face heat again. "Princess Veronica," he implores one final time, "I have complied with all of your demands thus far. I only ask that you treat me humanely, as in accordance with Zenith's code of--"

"If you speak one more word," Veronica interrupts, "then I will have you gagged as well." Alfonse falls silent at once, and she smiles again. "Oh, I do like seeing you so obedient to me!" she says with a laugh. "Tomorrow, I will have my fun. Tonight you have to prepare yourself, little prince."

She turns her back on him with another yawn and the order for Bruno to remove him, which he duly does. Alfonse is shuffled from the princess's tent to Bruno's where, in accordance to Veronica's wishes, he's laid out on a cot on his stomach and his ankles are lashed together with a cord. Bruno doesn't speak, so he doesn't either--he's still angry at him, and at the princess, for so thoroughly collaring him, and for taking away his freedom, and for even waging this senseless war in the first place.

Eventually, burnt out by his emotions, he allows his thoughts to shift to his friends. He wonders what they're doing now, what they're thinking about. Surely they must be thinking of him just as he is of them. The notion is calming, a little, especially when he thinks of Kiran, who he's doing a poor job of not getting too attached to. He wonders if Kiran's brilliant mind is already working on a plan to reverse this whole nightmarish situation. He hopes so. He’s sure of it.

Soothed by the thought, he lets himself relax for the first time all day, and sleep finds him shortly after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm calling the masked man Bruno because apparently that's his name in the data files, and it'd be awkward to keep calling him "the masked man." Also, even though he's a wild card in canon, in this fic, he works exclusively for Veronica (who's like 16+ or something for my purposes because I honestly can't get a read on her canon age and also I don't really care).
> 
> Comment and kudos if you'd like me to continue because Writer Needs Encouragement Badly.


	2. Volatile Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone gets slightly more Victorian and Alfonse has a Big Gay Crush on Kiran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the support for chapter 1! It seriously, unironically warms my heart to know that so many people enjoy my horribly indulgent fetish smut! <3

Alfonse wakes to a strong pressure bearing down on the back of his neck.

"Wake up," someone says curtly, and the pressure--a hand, he realizes--disappears. A moment later, his blankets are whipped off of him, exposing him to the chill of the predawn air. His knees curl instinctively up toward his chest to try and conserve heat, and that's when he remembers that his ankles are bound and his arms are tied against his back. He opens his eyes.

"Bruno," he says, staring at that man's muscled back as he dresses himself, and the events of the previous day unfold over him like a cresting wave dragging him beneath the surf.

"What," Bruno says, without turning to look at him.

Alfonse shifts on his cot, trying to push himself into a sitting position, but the ropes catch around his throat, forcing him to lie still again. The effort alerts him to a pressing tightness in his bladder, and he grimaces.

"I... I need to relieve myself," he says, shamefaced. The thought of having to announce himself like this every time he has to make water--or _worse_ \--is an unexpectedly distressing one.

"In a minute," Bruno responds, apparently unperturbed by the request. It's then that Alfonse realizes he isn't wearing his mask, though he supposes it doesn't really matter anymore who this man truly is, if it ever even did. It does to Bruno, though, for once he finishes dressing, he reaffixes the mask to his face before he turns to make his way toward the cot.

Using the knife from last night, he cuts the bonds holding Alfonse's legs before lifting him under the arms and setting him unsteadily on his feet. Alfonse tries to stretch as best he can, but his body is stiff with cold and sore all over from yesterday's march and abuse. His arms and shoulders ache from the strain of the rope against them, holding them immobile. He takes a step forward only at Bruno's urging, then falters.

"There's no way I can march today," he says miserably, because he's certain things will go as they did last night and he'll be made to walk anyway.

But to his surprise, Bruno responds with, "Then you will ride instead. Now hurry up. I won't put Her Majesty behind schedule because you cannot keep up."

Alfonse chooses to ignore the jab, mainly because he's relieved that Bruno seems to have realized as well that he's in no fit state to travel on foot. Still, there's the princess to contend with, who he's certain will be much more difficult to convince, for she has already revealed her sadistic streak to him. He dreads his first encounter with her this morning, hoping feebly that she will not wish to see him before setting off.

Bruno helps him outside the tent where they find the fog even denser than it was the night before. It stretches out far in all directions, thick and opaque, the tents rising as silhouettes from within it. Alfonse can only barely make out the shapes of soldiers going about their morning duties, a scene so painfully nostalgic that after a few moments, he has to look away. Those that catch sight of him pause to watch, and he can feel their eyes upon him, curious, or maybe disdainful, but with Bruno escorting him, none dare to approach. He's overcome with embarrassment anew on recalling the state of his dress and how his body must be on almost full display to them. He hopes, if nothing else, the fog obscures something of his lower half.

Thankfully, Bruno has the mercy, or maybe just the good sense, to guide him into a small grove, away from prying eyes, before he tugs his gown up over his hips and orders him to do his business. Perhaps unreasonably, Alfonse is ashamed of his body's exposure, even knowing that Bruno has already seen all of him, and it takes him more than a few minutes to settle down enough to do what he was brought here to do. Once he finishes, a rather annoyed Bruno pushes his gown around him again but miraculously remains silent on the issue as he leads him back to camp.

"Her Majesty wishes to see you before we depart," he says, confirming Alfonse's fears. He only murmurs his assent, however, hoping to mask them.

Princess Veronica is up and dressed when they receive permission to enter her tent. She's sitting on her knees on a cushion in front of the green fire, contemplating the breakfast laid out on a low table before her. It's a vast and hearty affair consisting in part of canned jams, honeyed fruits, oatmeal, nuts, pickled eggs, jerky, smoked fish, and bright red wine. The mere sight of the food is enough to cause Alfonse's stomach to groan with need.

"Did you sleep well, Prince Alfonse?" she asks, surprisingly good-naturedly, as Alfonse is lowered onto his knees across from her.

"Yes," he says after a beat, deciding then that he might be best served by seeming grateful and accommodating so that she will have no occasion to punish him. "Thank you, Princess Veronica."

"I'm glad to hear it," she says with a contented little hum. "Leave us, Bruno," she adds to that man. "And inform me when we are nearly set to depart."

"Very well," he says, bowing out of the tent. Somehow, his absence puts Alfonse on edge.

"He's so very loyal," Veronica says conversationally, "and he keeps me company when I'm lonely. I'm really very fond of him, but he can be far too kind for one of his station. Don't you agree, Alfonse?"

He flinches internally at her sudden familiarity with him. "I can't say, Your Majesty," he cautiously says. "You know him far better than I."

"Hmm," she says, knitting her brows together. "Has he been kind to you?"

"He's treated me as a gaoler ought to treat his prisoner." Alfonse is starting to dread this line of questioning; something about it feels very much like a trap. "No better, no worse."

Veronica plucks a jar of blueberry preserve from the table and twists the lid off with a small _pop_. "Last night, did he tie your feet?" she asks him casually, slipping her finger into the jar and then sucking the jam clean off of it.

Alfonse tries not to watch hungrily; he must keep his head clear, stay on-guard. "Yes, Princess, he did."

"And did he speak to you at all?" She dips her finger in for another scoop, this time letting it linger at her lips before her tongue slides out to lick it off.

"He did not, Princess," Alfonse says, lowering his eyes to his knees. She's looking for him, and even Bruno, to mess up, he realizes, so that she can invent some excuse to punish him.

Veronica sets the jar back on the table and folds her hands neatly into her lap. "I see," she says thoughtfully. "That is good to hear."

Alfonse almost breathes a sigh of relief when she adds, "Good, but unfortunate."

"Y-Your Majesty?"

"Oh, it's good that Bruno is doing his job according to expectation," she continues, "but unfortunate in that I now have no occasion to teach you another lesson. I feel that you got off light last night considering you were in possession of quite the saucy tongue."

Alfonse swallows thickly, his mouth dry as dust. "I wish you would understand that I only want to cooperate with you, Princess Veronica," he begins meekly. "If we could perhaps work something out to our mutual benefit, I--”

"Shut up." Her hand whips across his face, cutting him off and leaving a bright pink mark upon his cheek. "Do not act complaisant, for I know your pride still lingers beneath the surface. Let it out, foolish prince--I want to crush it beyond repair with my own two hands!"

Alfonse bows his head, refusing to look at her. "You will never break me," he tells her in a low voice. "Never."

But Veronica only laughs. "Lift your head," she orders, and, reluctantly, he does. "Look at you," she croons, taking his chin into her hand, tilting his head to gaze into his eyes. "You have so much fire in you yet! How I adore that!"

She releases him, gestures to the low table. "Are you hungry?"

He can't keep his eyes from flicking down to the food. "Yes," he admits.

She smiles, pushes a bowl of porridge toward him. "Then eat."

He raises his eyes to hers. "Are you going to make me beg to have my hands untied?"

Veronica feigns a look of dismay at the suggestion. "Certainly not!" Her smile widens just a touch. "You don't need your hands--you can eat perfectly well with your face."

Alfonse feels his cheeks start to burn. "You can't be serious. You would have me eat like an animal? For what purpose?" He's sure even as he says it that he already knows.

"Because I want you to," she says simply, as if that's all the reason in the world that she needs. It is, for her. "I would hurry if I were you," she adds. "We depart shortly, and I can't say when we'll break again for lunch. If you don't eat now, you'll surely be hungry later."

Alfonse stares at the porridge, his stomach tightening with hunger; he hasn't eaten since yesterday morning. "Will you show me no compassion at all?" he quietly asks.

"I'm feeding you. That's more compassion than I give most prisoners, you know. Most don't even get to keep their heads."

Somehow, he does not doubt her claim.

Princess Veronica will never relent--he knows that better than anybody now. She wants to break him down, and the more distressed she can get him, the better for her. His only hope, then, is to attempt to subvert her designs by taking it all in stride. He needs to eat, in any case; he won't leave his kingdom without its principle ruler, or Sharena without her older brother. He'll stay alive--no matter what it takes.

Slowly, he lowers his face to the bowl. He can feel her eyes on the back of his neck, and he does his best to ignore it. At this distance, the warm smell of cinnamon overtakes him, making it easier to open his mouth, use his tongue to lap up the porridge. It's delicious; he sticks out his tongue again, licks up some more.

Veronica giggles, and Alfonse freezes. In spite of his resolve, he feels his throat constrict. He struggles to swallow the porridge.

"Look at you, you mangy little mutt!" she laughs. "Scrounging for human scraps! Bad boy!"

She swats his head. His hands are shaking from where they're tied behind his back; he hopes she can't see them. He's still hungry, and he focuses on that as he takes his next few bites. For Askr, he tells himself. For Sharena and Anna and Kiran--

Kiran. What would he think if he could see him now? Would he be disappointed? Disgusted? That's not very prince-like, Alfonse, he can almost hear him saying. Eating like a dog, what were you thinking?

He swallows another mouthful. No--Kiran isn't like that. Kiran knows why he did this, knows what's at stake. Kiran would be disgusted with Veronica, not him, for making him do these degrading things, for--

Alfonse feels the boot to the back of his head before he feels the heat of the porridge against his skin. He jerks his head up but meets with resistance immediately in the form of Princess Veronica's booted foot, pressing down hard on his head and neck. He didn't even hear her stand.

"Didn’t I tell you to hurry up?" she growls, bearing down on him. "We're leaving."

She removes her foot, and Alfonse gasps as he pulls his head from the bowl, hot porridge sticking to his eyes and cheeks and hair. Veronica covers her mouth with her hand and titters as he shakes his head from side to side, trying to clear his face. He should have known she would do this--anything but let him retain even the smallest piece of his dignity.

"You've made such a mess, you poor child." She kneels before him and takes his chin into her cupped hands. "Let me help you."

He's too stunned to resist as she pulls him close, brings her own tongue to his cheek, and starts to lick him clean.

"No," he says, once he has command of his voice again. "Stop--please, stop this."

She ignores him, moving her tongue down the bridge of his nose, over his cheek, around his jaw, stopping only when she reaches the ropes at his neck. Alfonse shivers and jerks back, but Veronica reaches around him, takes hold of the ropes, and tugs. The bonds close around his throat, sealing off his airway, and he gags. She holds him steady as he thrashes against her, desperate to restore his breath.

"Do not defy me, prince," she murmurs, low and cold. "Submit to me. That is the only way to preserve your life."

He can't speak to beg her to release her hold or even to apologize for his insubordination; he would do either now without shame, just so long as she let him breathe. His head is starting to feel both light and heavy all at once, and his vision blurs at the corners, then all over as his eyes fill with tears. She'll kill him, he realizes; contract be damned, she'll really kill him.

It isn't until he's started to convulse and drool that she finally lets go. He chokes in a breath, and it stings his throat. He doubles over at the waist, gasping in air as his heart shudders in his chest. A haze of nausea filters over him. He leans to the side, away from the table, and retches, but nothing comes out.

"I don't want to hear another word out of that defiant mouth." She sounds unreasonably far away, though he can feel her warmth right beside him. "Nod your head if you understand me."

Shakily, mutely, Alfonse nods.

"Now that's a good boy." She bends over to pat his head almost fondly. Then she straightens and strolls through entryway without another glance in his direction.

Alfonse tries to recompose himself, though it takes several long minutes before he's able to stop trembling. Had the princess truly intended to kill him simply for his small act of defiance? She informed him just yesterday that she would keep him alive, and yet now she is insisting that even the slightest insubordination is enough to warrant her taking his life. His death would render the contract between their nations null and void, and Askr would surely fight back, but would it survive the full onslaught of the Emblian army? And yet, had she the power to take his kingdom all along, then why would she even bother with taking him as a hostage in the first place?

His head throbs, and he can't think straight, not in this condition. This time, he's scared more than angry, scared of what this woman can do, of what she's fully willing to do. He doesn't want to submit to her, is afraid of what will happen if he does. Will he lose his mind and grow to love her? Will he become like the heroes she captured and mindlessly worship her?

No--he won't let it happen. He has too much to lose. No matter what happens, he won't let her break him.

When Bruno comes to retrieve him some time later, he surprises him by gently feeling around his neck where the ropes dug into flesh. "Are you alright?" he asks, and Alfonse turns his head to the side.

"I'm still breathing," he bites out. "For now."

Bruno gives him a long-suffering look. "I warned you before, did I not? Do not cross the princess. Her Majesty is impulsive and cruel to even her own subjects. Do not presume that as fellow royalty, you are an exception."

"Is that advice?" Alfonse asks coldly. "Or a warning?"

Bruno grips his shoulders and pulls him to his feet. "Both. Now get walking. We ride from here as soon as this tent is disassembled."

Alfonse allows himself to be conveyed from the tent to Bruno's awaiting horse, a black stallion in light barding that must be at least sixteen hands tall. He's left in the hands of a burly axeman as Bruno mounts, but when he reaches down to pull him up in front, Alfonse draws back.

"I-I can't ride in this attire!" he cries, glaring down at his bare legs and at his very unprotected groin.

"We'll be going at a mild trot," Bruno returns, sounding almost exasperated, as if he's speaking with a child. "You'll be fine."

Still, Alfonse resists. "I need riding breeches, at the very least," he counters. "It's cruel and unusual to make me ride in this state."

Bruno glares from behind his mask. "Then, would you prefer to walk all the way to the capital?"

Alfonse is silent, staring at his bare feet, dirtied with mud and slightly swollen from yesterday's march. Bruno takes that as resignation and has the axeman hand him up to be seated in the saddle before him. The leather is tough and sticky against his skin, and Alfonse squirms. His privates are pressed flat against the saddle, an uncomfortable sensation on its own, but he dreads how it will chafe.

"I suppose you won't untie me for this either, then?" he asks dully, adjusting his arms into a slightly more bearable position.

"That is unnecessary," Bruno replies.

Alfonse lets his head drop against his breast. “And suppose I should lose my balance and fall off and break my neck?”

“I will protect you,” Bruno assures him, and Alfonse knows he means on the horse, but he can’t keep the contented little flutter of hope from batting against his heart.

He wishes now more than ever that Kiran were here to protect him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter originally went on for quite a bit longer, but I ended up splitting it into two. So chapter 3 should be out next Wednesday.
> 
> Please leave a kudos for Alfonse! Don't you think the poor boy deserves it?


	3. Resigned Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is entirely too much fog and Alfonse takes a warm bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to accommodate new revelations in Blazing Shadows like whoa!
> 
> But how did this get so long, anyway?

In another quarter of an hour, all is packed at last, and the party sets off for the capital with an estimated arrival time of nightfall. The fog remains thick even as morning breaks, and Alfonse soon finds himself shivering from the cold. Bruno, in an act of clemency or, more likely, vexed by his unabated shaking, eventually removes his own heavy cloak and drapes it over him. Alfonse glances at him over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he says, but Bruno carries on as if he hasn’t heard him.

They ride in silence. There isn’t much to see under all the fog, and Bruno won’t talk, so Alfonse has nothing to distract himself from the steady ache in his shoulders and bound arms and the burn in his neck and wrists where the ropes have rubbed his skin raw. The leather of the saddle feels itchy between his legs and presses painfully into the wound on his thigh. He tries to keep from shifting around too much with the movements of the horse, but without his arms for balance, it takes all his core strength just to remain upright.

He wishes they could stop somewhere to rest for a time--he’s tired and hungry and slightly motion-sick--but the thought of actually reaching their destination fills him with certain dread. Veronica has demonstrated that she wants in him more than just a trophy and a hostage, and he’s borne witness to enough of her darker inclinations to be able to discern something of her tastes. On signing the contract to surrender himself to her, he expected to be tortured eventually, for intelligence, maybe, or even out of spite, and he was prepared to abide it with all the nobility ordained by his station.

But this is something else. There’s no purpose to her cruelty, no desired end to it as far as he can tell. For the princess, the act of tormenting him is its own reward, one from which she derives some perverse pleasure. It makes her wholly unpredictable, and it’s that unknown that frightens him more than anything.

He exhales slowly through his mouth, concentrating on staying calm. He has no control over what happens to him now, he reminds himself, so there’s no sense in worrying over it.

He tries straightening his back again, hoping to relieve the ache in it even a little, but, thrown off-balance by the motion, he nearly slides off the horse until Bruno curls his own arm around his waist to catch him.

“What are you doing?” he asks, annoyed, and they’re so close that Alfonse can feel the rumble of his voice through his spine.

“My back hurts from being tied like this."

Bruno pulls his arm tighter around his waist, drawing him back toward him. “Then lean against me,” he says, “and stop squirming.”

Alfonse blushes at the contact but doesn’t reject it. Bruno’s chest is solid and warm, and though lying against it doesn’t fully alleviate the pain in his back, it helps. He ends up closing his eyes, focusing his attention on the rhythmic clip-clop of hoofbeats.

They break for lunch just after noon. Bruno wakes Alfonse from the light slumber he’s fallen into by hauling him bodily from the horse. Then he sits him on his knees in the dewy grass and thrusts a strip of salted jerky beneath his nose.

“Eat,” he orders. Alfonse stares.

“I’m not a dog,” he says flatly, but his resistance is already crumbling; the smell of the meat hangs under his nose, making his mouth water.

“As you are under Princess Veronica’s thrall, I see no difference between you and a dog,” Bruno says, and Alfonse glares. “If you choose not to eat now, then you will go without until we reach the palace.”

“No,” Alfonse says, almost a moan. “Alright. I’ll eat.”

Bruno holds out the jerky, and Alfonse leans forward on his knees, then hesitates. It isn’t any easier than it was this morning, and here, he doesn’t even have the privacy of a tent. Feeling very self-conscious, he opens his mouth and tentatively tears a strip off with his teeth, chewing and swallowing quickly to dispose of any evidence that he was hand-fed. He glances around him then to see if anyone is watching, but none of the other soldiers appear to be paying him any mind, so caught up are they in eating and chatting amongst themselves.

“Not so hard, was it?” Bruno asks, sounding irritatingly haughty. He presses the jerky up against Alfonse’s lips, urging him to take another bite, which he reluctantly does. This, too, he finishes quickly and with another furtive look over his shoulder.

“Does it really amuse you to see me so debased?” he asks bitterly even as he accepts the last of the meat. To his mortification, a strand of saliva escapes his lips in his haste, sliding down the side of his jaw.

“It isn’t a matter of amusement to me,” Bruno says, reaching out his hand to catch the saliva. “You need to acclimate. If you intend to survive, then you will need to toss out that foolish thing called pride that you cling to so desperately." He wipes his chin dry up to the corner of his mouth, then holds out his hand to show him, looking very smug as he does it.

Alfonse drops his eyes to stare at his knees. "That’s easy for you to say. _You_ are not the one who is bound and humiliated and--and fed like a _dog_ , completely at the mercy of your enemies!”

“Do not presume that you are the only one who has suffered in this life, prince,” is Bruno’s cold retort, and Alfonse flinches.

“Yes,” he says, ashamed, “you’re right. I’m a prince. Until now, I have led a comfortable life and have rarely wanted for anything. I have no right to continue thinking solely in my own self-interests.”

To his surprise, Bruno’s expression softens a little. “Here,” he says, and he offers Alfonse another piece of jerky. “You should know,” he adds after a moment, “that the bind I put you in contains no knots.”

Alfonse looks at him quizzically, then pulls at the ropes experimentally; they hold fast. “That is impressive,” he says uncertainly.

“It is a sign of respect,” Bruno explains, “for a prisoner bound with knots has the look of a common criminal. When care is taken to bind him with grace and aesthetic sense, it shows that he is of noble standing and is worthy of the effort.”

Alfonse can’t see anything particularly graceful in being bound either with or without knots, but the sentiment cheers him a little anyway. “I see,” he says. “Then thank you for your consideration.”

Bruno allows him two more strips of jerky and even a sugared peach, which leaves him comfortably sated. Then he produces a waterskin and gently tilts his head back as he guides the opening to his lips. Alfonse drinks deeply, nearly draining the skin before pulling back to catch his breath.

“Do you need to relieve yourself?” Bruno asks him after, and, flushing, Alfonse nods his head. This time, too, Bruno takes him away from the rest of the party and into the privacy of a cluster of trees. Alfonse observes, when his gown is pushed up, that he’s slightly red between the legs from chafing, though the pain is fortunately minimal. It doesn’t take him nearly as long to take care of himself this time; with a sinking heart, he realizes he’s becoming accustomed to showing his body to this man.

They set off again, and this time, Alfonse has the energy to stay awake. By late noon, the fog has mostly burned off, revealing more of the stunning Emblian vista to him.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? My country.”

Alfonse turns his head to find that Princess Veronica has ridden up beside them and is gazing out over the fields as well.

“Princess,” Alfonse greets her, endeavoring to keep the sharpness of anger out of his voice. “Yes--your empire enjoys a rich natural beauty to be envied.”

“My father liberated these lands from the tribes of dreadful barbarians who were misusing them,” she informs him. “And he had the good sense to put to death all of his dissenters before rebellion could swell in our empire. We have prospered ever since.”

“That is quite the feat,” Alfonse says neutrally, gazing over the land with a new sense of disgust.

“Oh yes, my father was quite the conqueror,” Veronica says, sounding very pleased by the perceived compliment. Then she adds, rather self-consciously, “But of course, I will surpass him in greatness some day soon. If only he could see how already at my young age, I have captured the prince of the kingdom he could never conquer!”

She looks meaningfully at him, but he does not acknowledge it. Instead, he asks, “And what of your step-mother, who by all rights should be the reigning empress?”

Veronica’s face darkens, and Alfonse almost regrets asking. “ _She_ is of no consequence. I have expelled her from the royal palace, and now she plays at empress in her manor in the countryside. My people are loyal to me as they were loyal to my father before me, so she may cling to her title like a child with a broken toy, but in the end, she must accept that she has no power and that she cannot stop me.”

Alfonse doesn’t know how to respond to that, and thankfully, the princess drifts off back into the thick of the party, her mood clearly soured.

They reach the gates of the capital just after sundown. The entire city appears to be walled; a towering expanse of gray brick stretches in both directions as far as Alfonse can see. He shifts nervously on the horse; Bruno puts a hand out to hold him steady.

Princess Veronica rides to the front of the party with Xander close behind and addresses the gatemen, who bow low and give the order for the entrance to be opened. Bruno nudges his horse into a brisk trot, one arm wrapped around Alfonse to keep him stable, though the accelerated pace jostles him unpleasantly against the saddle anyway. They come to a stop before Veronica, who looks him over, smiling slightly. Then she turns to address her army.

“We return home heroes!” she declares, eliciting a tremendous roar of approval from the congregated soldiers. “We have all but conquered the kingdom of Askr, taking their most valued ruler as our prisoner!”

The roar intensifies, and Alfonse ducks his head, shrinking further beneath Bruno’s cloak.

“Let Embla ever prosper!” Veronica cries, and chants of “Long live Embla!” and “Long live the imperial princess!” fill the air. Then, turning her horse, the princess leads the procession through the gates and into the city.

Shoddy gas lamps light the tightly packed streets of what appears to be a business district of some level of impoverishment if the close quarters, dirty street signs, and battered storefronts are any indicators. Alfonse gazes around in stunned dismay. Askr’s principle commerce district is not extravagant, but it has a clean, healthy character to it that makes it conductive to good business. Even the slums that Sharena has been working hard to reform have a certain prideful dignity to them. This, he thinks, is almost tragically dismal.

He doesn’t have long to take in the city before they’re stopped on the main road by a horse-drawn carriage, and it’s into this that he’s conveyed, slung like a child’s doll over Bruno’s shoulder. He’s dropped unceremoniously onto the velvet seat cushions, and as indignant as he is about his manhandling, it’s a relief to finally sit somewhere accommodating to his bare skin.

He glances out the window to see Veronica speaking with Xander, who gives her a firm nod before riding off ahead of them. To his discontent, she then dismounts her horse, hands it off to a foot soldier, and approaches Bruno, holding out her hand to be helped into their carriage.

“I can’t wait to retire to my own bedchamber tonight,” she says with a yawn, plopping down onto the bench across the way. “I have a lovely room set up for you, too, Alfonse.”

He doubts that but inclines his head in respectful acknowledgement anyway. Bruno drops heavily beside him, giving him what might be a warning look, or perhaps he’s just perpetually glaring; it's hard to tell behind the mask. Veronica doesn’t appear to notice, in any case.

“How about a warm bath when we get to the palace?” she suggests. “I’ve sent notice ahead for the servants to prepare one for you. I have the most delightful hot water spring from which I draw my baths, with plumbing and all!”

“If it pleases you, Princess,” Alfonse responds carefully, though the thought of a bath sounds beyond divine right now.

The carriage ride to the palace is swift and smoother than horseback. Alfonse doesn’t have much occasion to look around, however, for Veronica’s subjects soon come to pack the streets, hoping to get a glimpse of her, or maybe him, and he won’t let them see him in this state if he can help it. The princess doesn’t pay them much heed, either, glancing up and out the window occasionally but keeping her eyes to her lap for the most part, apparently lost in thought.

They reach the imperial palace in just short of an hour. Alfonse feels his nerves kick up a notch as the carriage jerks to a halt. Looking out the window now, he sees that a crowd has congregated just beyond the palace gates where a handful of guards are struggling to keep them at bay.

Bruno exits the carriage first, offering his hand to the princess and helping her out where she’s met with raucous cheering and applause. She turns to address her subjects, smiling and waving. Bruno returns for Alfonse, pulling him out decidedly less gently. He removes his cloak from his shoulders and takes hold of the rope lead, nudging him in the lower back and commanding him to walk. Unwillingly, Alfonse approaches Veronica.

“Here is Prince Alfonse of the Askran Kingdom!” she announces, stepping aside and tugging him by the arm to bring him beside her so that the assembled masses may get a look at him. His presentation is met with jeers, and his cheeks swell with shame. Before he can even attempt to retreat backwards, he feels Veronica’s boot against his bound arms, and suddenly, he’s on his face on the ground with her foot pressing his head to the stone.

“He is now my prisoner!” she cries, and the crowd screams its approval. Alfonse struggles to get up, but bound and weak as he is, he can scarcely manage to even lift his head to perceive his tormentors.

Veronica moves her foot to stomp on his arms, and he cries out before he can stop himself. “We have nothing to fear from Askr,” she says, “for here is its beating heart beneath my boot.” She lifts her foot and kicks him in the side, and he curls in on himself. His gown has ridden up his hips, and he’s certain now that she can see his exposed bottom.

“Bruno!” she calls, and that man appears beside her. “Take the disgraced prince away. Put him in chains and lock him in the deepest cell in the dungeon.” She crouches over Alfonse, jerks his head up by the hair. “Take a moment to enjoy the caress of the night-wind against your cheek,” she tells him, loud enough for her audience to hear. “This will be the last time you ever feel it.”

She lets go, and Alfonse feels hands under his stomach, lifting him, and then he’s tossed again over Bruno’s shoulder, thankfully with his backside turned away from the crowd. Princess Veronica speaks to her people with more impassioned words, but he’s too tired or perhaps too delirious to comprehend them.

Bruno brings him into the palace’s cavernous entry hall and sets him on his feet on the cold flagstone, holding firmly to both his shoulders to keep him from toppling over. Alfonse looks around him warily, searching for the door that might lead down into the dungeons but finding no obvious suspects. All sorts of doors line the walls from almost every angle, and occasionally, a servant will emerge from one, admirably paying him no mind. A wide, black marble staircase serves as the hall’s central attraction, branching into opposite directions. Following it upward with his eyes, he finds that the ceiling is several stories high, terminating in an expansive skylight that dimly reflects the glow of the wrought-iron chandelier hanging down from it. Unlike his castle in Askr, which is built for utility, Embla’s royal palace is an exercise in extravagance.

Princess Veronica enters minutes later, smiling in her uncanny way as she strides up to meet them. “Did you see how ecstatic they were?” she crows. “How amusing!”

When Alfonse fails to answer, she purses her lips. “Don’t be ungrateful. Look, I have no intention of secreting you away to some deep, dark dungeon--that was all for a little show. I promised you a bath, did I not?” She turns to Bruno. “Go ahead and untie him. Escort him to the bath and then to his room. I will see to him in the morning.”

Alfonse looks up only to see the princess’s retreating back as she ascends the staircase. Meanwhile, Bruno draws his knife and cuts away the ropes that have held him prisoner for nearly twenty-four hours. Alfonse wraps his arms around himself gratefully, wincing at the pain in his stiff shoulders. There are bright red welts around his wrists that he’s sure are around his neck as well.

Without a word, Bruno takes hold of his upper arm and guides him through a broad archway behind the staircase. The corridor beyond it is softly lit with candles that illuminate the paintings on the walls. Most are of exquisite landscapes, the likes of which he witnessed firsthand these two days past, but there are portraits as well. Alfonse recognizes one of the previous emperor and another of the princess, but the rest are strangers to him. He wonders vaguely which, if any, depict the current empress or if Veronica has had any such painting removed in her absence.

After passing through three interconnected hallways and partway through a fourth, they at last arrive at a set of double doors. Bruno pushes through them, and Alfonse is shocked to be met with a blast of cold air, causing him to tear up.

“It’s… outside?” he asks incredulously, rubbing at his eyes.

Bruno pulls him the rest of the way through the doors, then gives him a shove forward, releasing his hold on him at last. “Her Majesty’s coveted open-air bath. Consider yourself lucky to have the privilege of using it.

Despite his exhaustion, Alfonse finds himself beyond impressed. They aren’t entirely outside, as he initially suspected, but rather in a sort of courtyard, walled in on all four sides by enclosed corridors with downward-sloping roofs--the same corridors, he realizes, that they have just traversed. A garden of gold and crimson roses flourishes around an enormous circular pool of carved white stone, and situated amongst the flowerbeds are two sneering gargoyles spitting streams of water from their mouths. The surface of the pool is scattered with rose petals, which Alfonse thinks must have been left for him only recently. Despite the chill of the wind, which occasionally blows in from on high, the air is warm and wet with steam.

"Go,” Bruno says. “I’ll be inside waiting when you are finished.”

Alfonse waits for him to leave, then approaches the edge of the pool, dipping his toe in. The water is hot but not uncomfortably so. He’s about to pull off his gown when a timid voice behind him stops him in his tracks.

“E-excuse me, Your Highness…”

Alfonse whirls around to find a petite girl in a maid’s uniform standing nervously in the doorframe, holding some kind of bundle in her hands.

“I’m very sorry for disturbing you, Your Highness,” she says hastily, bowing low. “I’ve been sent to deliver these.” She unwraps the bundle to reveal a bath towel, a bit of soap, and a clean gown identical to the one he’s wearing now.

“Thank you,” Alfonse says, stepping forward to accept the items from her. He looks at her curiously, causing her to shrink beneath his gaze. “You are…?”

“Felicia, Your Highness!” she supplies. “I’m a summoned hero from the Kingdom of--”

“Nohr,” Alfonse finishes with a small smile. “Yes, I know of you.” His smile fades nearly as soon as it appeared. “I’m sorry you’re bound in a contract against your will here. If I had only been more proactive, then..."

“Oh, it isn’t all bad, Your Highness!” Felicia says brightly. “At least I don’t get scolded here for making so many mistakes. In fact”--she taps her chin thoughtfully--“I don’t think Her Majesty notices me much at all.”

Alfonse raises his eyebrows but doesn’t ask. The contract affects the mind as much as it does the body. She can’t understand entirely how she’s being manipulated, so there’s no point in bringing it up.

“Oh, and if you could please undo your bandages,” she adds, “I will tend to your wounds after your bath.”

“Ah, yes..." Alfonse glances down at his wrapped thigh and feels self-conscious all over again. Felicia has the decency not to follow his gaze.

“Right, then, I’ll be outside with Sir Bruno,” she says. “Just let me know when you are ready for me.” She pauses, then, almost shyly, asks, “I-is there anything else you require?”

Alfonse shakes his head. “No. Thank you, Felicia.”

She beams at him. “Of course, Your Highness!” She passes through the double doors and is gone.

Alfonse returns his attention to his leg. The bandages come off easily enough, but the wound is worse than he initially suspected; he was hoping to not have to do it up again, but the cut is wide and jagged and only barely sealed over with the beginnings of new skin.

He divests of his gown before unraveling the other bandages around his abdomen and upper right arm. He resents the cleric for not using a stave on him; the wounds are tender and unsightly. He wonders if Veronica ordered her not to, just to make him suffer, and his anger, momentarily displaced, shifts back to her.

He dips into the water gradually, sucking in a breath when it reaches his thigh, then stomach, arm, and, finally, his sore wrists and neck. The pool is deeper than it appears from without, too deep for him to touch the bottom in the center. He contemplates, without any real seriousness, drowning himself and wonders if that might put a kink in Veronica’s plans. No, probably not--he doesn’t seem to have any real significance to her outside of the symbolic.

He leans back against the side of the pool and uses the soap to slowly clean up and down his body. He remembers the cleric’s crude treatment of him, as if he were an object, and shudders, forcing the memory back. He passes the soap around his privates quickly, then moves on to his wounds. He scrubs them as firmly as he dares to for fear of reopening them. The last thing he needs, on top of everything, is an infection.

He soaks until the heat becomes unbearable, then climbs out of the pool, drying himself with the towel before wrapping it around his waist. After a few moments’ hesitation, he approaches the door and, rather bashfully, calls, “Felicia? I’m ready for you.” He isn’t sure she’s heard him until the door cracks open an inch and she cautiously pokes her head in. He steps back to give her space, feeling vey improper in his state of undress.

She enters carrying a med kit as well as a set of irons, giving him an apologetic look when she sees him staring at the latter. “Her Majesty said I was to put these on your feet when we left for your room,” she says, but she lowers the hand holding them and then drops them to the ground with a clatter. “But if you promise not to harm me or cause any trouble, I don’t think anyone will mind if you don’t wear them.”

“Oh!” Alfonse says, surprised by the offer. “That’s very kind of you.” He smiles at her, and she smiles back. “You have my word. I won’t cause any trouble, and I certainly won’t hurt you.”

She has him kneel on another towel as she deftly treats and wraps the wounds on his arm and abdomen as well as the rope burn at his wrists and throat. To his own great astonishment, his embarrassment at displaying his seminude form before her rapidly fades. Thinking on it, he realizes that the sensation is reminiscent of being back among comrades on the battlefield where he is no stranger to allowing clerics access to him. Felicia’s eyes don’t stray from her task at hand, and she’s swift and efficient in her execution of it. She allows him to wrap his leg wound himself, even offering him the courtesy of turning away while he does it.

Once he finishes, he pulls on the new gown, reluctantly dropping the towel covering his lower half before giving her permission to turn back around.

“You’re really good at this,” he tells her, examining his neatly wrapped wrists.

“I’ve been practicing,” she says with a rather goofy grin. “So I’m very glad to hear you say so, Your Highness!”

Bruno meets them outside the bath like he promised. He glances once at Alfonse’s ankles, then to the shackles lying abandoned on the ground, but miraculously says nothing of it, merely gripping his arm and guiding him back through the maze of hallways with Felicia scampering to keep up behind them. They don’t return to the entry hall but rather take a much smaller staircase all the way up to the fourth floor. A short turn finds them in a narrow corridor, and it’s here that Bruno stops them before a nondescript oak door. He pulls back the bolt and turns the knob, and the three of them step inside.

It would be an ordinary room if not for the set of iron bars that divides it, making a prison cell out of an otherwise comfortable bedchamber. In one corner is a canopied bed with a thick, burgundy duvet and an unnecessarily large assortment of pillows. A writing-desk and wooden stool stand off to the side, the former fully equipped with paper, quills, and ink. Beneath the window (barred, of course) is an elaborately upholstered tuffet and beside that, a bookshelf. To Alfonse’s embarrassed relief, a commode sits discreetly in the back corner.

Bruno removes a key from his belt and unlocks the cell door. Then he leads Alfonse by the arm and pushes him into the enclosure, shutting and locking the door behind him. Alfonse turns around, reaches up, and curls his hand around a bar, feeling a sudden, strong mixture of anger, dismay, betrayal, and loneliness, though he does his best to rein it in.

“This is where you will be staying indefinitely and where you will spend your time whenever Her Majesty does not have use for you,” Bruno says.

“Caged, like an animal,” Alfonse mutters, mostly to himself, but Bruno hears it.

“Would you prefer to be shackled by the wrists and ankles in a cold cell like a criminal?” he asks him, and Alfonse shakes his head.

“No. This is infinitely better than I could have expected.” He turns away from the bars, trying hard to blink back tears. He hardly knows why he wants to cry all of a sudden, only that the adrenaline and uncertainty of the past two days have finally worn off, leaving him feeling painfully hollow.

“Are you hungry?” Bruno asks him quietly after a moment, but Alfonse shakes his head again; his stomach feels weak and queasy and entirely incompatible with food at present. “Very well. There will be guards posted outside your door, and there is a handbell there on the windowsill--use it to signal a need for assistance, but do not abuse that privilege or it will be taken from you. Is that clear?”

“Yes, perfectly. Thank you.”

There’s silence for a moment longer, and then Alfonse hears the door creak open and two pairs of feet shuffle out. The sound of the bolt being drawn is unmistakable. He waits a few moments anyway, to ensure he is alone. Then he collapses onto the bed, scrambling under the covers and wrapping himself in the downy sheets. Lying in a bed like this feels familiar, even comforting. He breathes in the clean smell of the linens and tries desperately to think of something, anything pleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silly Alfonse. There already are kinks in Veronica's plan. ;)
> 
> Next chapter will contain lewdness. Depending on how explicitly I end up writing it, the rating may go up. What do you think will happen to this poor boy? What do you _want_ to happen to this poor boy? Let me know in the comments, and thanks as always for reading!  <3


	4. Cruel Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Felicia is adorable and Alfonse learns a hard and nonsensical lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of this writing, I have 69 kudos.
> 
> Thank you so very, very much to all of the lovely and encouraging comments! Your kind words make me blush more than writing this kinky stuff does! I can keep Nino-ing thanks to your support! <3
> 
> This chapter contains elements of dubious consent, which we would call rape in real life, but since this is Fiction Land and we're all adults, we know that we can indulge in our sick, sick fetishes purely in the context of fantasy.

Alfonse can't remember the day his father died. The news didn’t reach the castle until almost two full days later, when the messenger sent ahead tore through the front doors in hysterics with his eyes full of tears and the news that the king had been slain.

He remembers _that_ day. He remembers the hollowness, the empty surprise, the fear, the sadness, the anger. He remembers Sharena crying and their mother fainting. He remembers wondering why, and how, and what would they do now, what would _he_ do?

He remembers feeling powerless for the first time in his life, and cheated. Father didn't fall to the Emblian Empire, who warred with them even then. It wasn't some grand battle that took him in a blaze of honor and glory. He was slain by a barbarian from a small nation in the lawless wilds when he went to negotiate peace. It was a single arrow to the skull that did it--such a small thing. The Askran army crushed that nation soon after, but what did it matter? The land was inconsequential. It didn’t bring Father back.

For a time, Askr was robbed of its empathy, and Alfonse knows his would have been taken from him, too, if not for Sharena's resilience and patience and love. Mother didn't fare as well. She lost her hope, succumbing to a malady of the heart. Though Sharena nurses a faint hope of restoring her, Alfonse has long since abandoned such wishful thinking. Ever since Father died and Mother became indisposed, he has shouldered a king's burden, inheriting all the duties required of that post. Perhaps Sharena can hold to optimism still, but he must face reality for what it is.

But he won't end up like Mother. For Sharena's sake more than anything, and for Anna and Kiran and the Order of Heroes and all of Askr's people, he must continue to be a pillar of strength, even if he has to take every grievance, every discontent, every kernel of hatred and malice upon himself. Even if he’s despised or ridiculed or humiliated--

“Prince Alfonse!”

Alfonse stirs. The blankets are so warm that he doesn’t want to move.

“Please wake up, Your Highness!”

He doesn’t want to. Something bad will happen if he does. He wants to stay like this where it’s safe and comfortable forever.

“I’m very sorry, Your Highness, but you need to wake up! I have your breakfast!”

He _is_ hungry; his stomach aches for want of food. He shifts on the bed and reluctantly opens his eyes.

“Felicia?” he says groggily, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. The young maid gradually comes into focus behind a row of iron bars. His stomach lurches, and he sits up.

“Good morning, Your Highness!” Felicia says cheerily, her smile cut in half by the bars. “Did you sleep well?” She sets a collapsible table bearing a loaded tray onto its legs and lifts the key ring hanging from a cord around her neck. A fire is burning in the grate outside the cell, creating a paradoxical coziness within the room.

Alfonse watches her mutely for a while, fingers clenching around the bedclothes. “It was... restful,” he says at last. He wishes he could return to sleep and banish this curse of awareness.

Felicia’s smile falters, and for a moment, she looks troubled. She recovers quickly enough, though, and fiddles with the key ring, dropping it once before she manages to unlock the cell door. Alfonse doesn’t move as she enters with the tray and sets it on the desk. She hovers there for a moment.

“Your Highness, you should eat since you didn't last night.”

Alfonse forces a smile. “Yes, I will. Thank you for your concern.”

“O-of course, Your Highness!” Felicia backs out of the cell, pulling the door shut behind her. She hesitates, then adds, “Would you like me to leave?”

“If you wouldn't mind,” he says gently. “I need a few moments to make myself decent.” Or, he thinks angrily, as decent as this humiliatingly revealing garment will allow for.

Felicia bows. “Then please use the handbell when you are finished. I will be right outside the door.”

Once she’s gone, Alfonse slides out from under the covers. He tugs on his gown, trying again to lengthen it and growling in frustration when it refuses to stretch. It wouldn't be _as_ distressing if only the princess would allow him some form of smallclothes. If he finds her in a lighter mood today, he determines to make the request again.

He relieves himself in the chamber pot, casting paranoid glances toward the door while he does, though nobody disturbs him. It's only when he moves to the desk and perceives the repast laid out for him that he remembers his hunger. His stomach twists as he takes in the sight of fresh eggs and bacon, fruit and yogurt, grits, buttered toast with jam, bits of fish, fried potato, and coffee.

At least, he thinks as he rather crassly stabs into the eggs with his fork, he's being fed well now. He can use his hands and utensils today, too, and that puts him in slightly better spirits. He finishes in less than a quarter of an hour, feeling comfortably full, if not faintly disappointed in his own lack of etiquette.

Though he's clean from his bath last night, his hair is a tousled mess, and he has to card his fingers through it several times to get it into even a passably presentable state. They took away his hairpiece back when they stripped him on the battlefield, and now his hair hangs loose on the left side to match with the right, framing his face. He can't explain why, but the change makes him uneasy, like he's lost just another bit of his autonomy. With a heavy heart, he stands and traipses over to the window.

It appears to be well past morning; the sun is already high overhead. He doesn’t bother looking out--what he sees will surely only depress him further. He picks up the handbell on the sill and gives it a quick, sharp ring. Almost instantly, Felicia reappears, poking her head cautiously in, as if afraid she's misheard him and is intruding. On receiving permission to enter, she does so and then beams when she catches sight of his nearly empty tray.

“Did you enjoy your breakfast, Your Highness?”

Her enthusiasm is a little bit infectious; he manages a small smile this time. “Please offer my compliments to the chef.”

“I'll be sure to pass them on,” she says. Then her face sobers again. She's gripping a pair of shackles in her left hand, which she miserably holds out now. “I'm so sorry, Prince Alfonse,” she sighs, shoulders slumping. “I have to put these on you today. Sir Bruno told on me, and Her Majesty scolded me severely this morning.”

With a pang of guilt overriding his disgust at Veronica, Alfonse brushes her apology off. “Please don't apologize. It isn't your fault. I don't want you getting into trouble on my behalf again, though, alright?”

“But I truly am sorry,” Felicia says sullenly, unlocking the cell door and stepping aside so that he can come out. “If I could get away with it, I would, but this contract...”

“I understand. Do what you must.”

Felicia kneels before him, careful not to lift her eyes past the hem of his gown, and slips the shackles around his ankles. She doesn't tighten them much at all, which he's quietly grateful for.

When she stands, she reaches out as if to take his arm, then seems to think better of it and clasps her hands before her instead. “Now, if you’ll please follow me..."

He takes a tentative step forward. The chain between the shackles is only long enough to allow him to walk, and even then, it's more of a shuffle. Thankfully, Felicia moves slowly, pausing without comment whenever he stumbles. They remain on the fourth floor, which is a small relief--Alfonse doesn’t even want to imagine traversing stairs--and eventually end up at an ornate mahogany door, left slightly ajar. They stop here, but before they can enter, Felicia freezes, and after a moment, Alfonse realizes why. Two distinct voices can be heard from within--Veronica's and Bruno's, he determines after a moment--and it sounds as if they're quarreling.

“--need to take this seriously, Veronica. Do you truly think I would tell all of this in jest? You _must_ see reason, or--”

“You are such a fool, Bruno, to be taken in by a children's storybook tale like that!” Veronica interrupts. “But _I_ am not so easily deceived! You can invent whatever malady you like, but I still--”

“I am speaking the truth, you foolish girl!” Bruno returns explosively, and Felicia flinches; clearly, she, too, is taken aback by Bruno's sudden callous, familiar demeanor. “I have tracked down writings from other worlds, and all of them point to--”

“Enough,” Veronica snaps, and Bruno stops mid-sentence. “If you are going to grow soft like that _woman_ and suggest that I withdraw from this war, then I will have you, too, ejected from this palace! So I suggest you mind your tongue!”

Bruno lets out a laugh that sends chills down Alfonse's spine. “You will do no such thing, Veronica,” he says, “for you are far too lonely to let go of the only--”

“Shut up! I have my heroes, and they are all that I need!”

There's silence for a moment, and then Bruno sighs. “Is it really slaves and toys that you want, Veronica? Don't you truly yearn for--”

He stops, and Alfonse feels his heart slide into his stomach as their eyes lock through the gap in the door.

“We have company,” Bruno says tonelessly. Veronica whips around.

“Eavesdropping, are you, you stupid maid?” She stomps up to them and throws open the door, capturing a fistful of Felicia's hair and dragging her into the room beyond--a sitting room, rather sparsely furnished for a princess. Felicia cries out but doesn't struggle, allowing Veronica to kick her to the floor.

“I'm very sorry, Your Majesty, it was not my intention to--” She squeaks and falls silent when Veronica presses the toe of her boot into her stomach.

“Don't hurt her!” Alfonse shouts, stumbling into the room after them, and Veronica raises her eyes to glare at him.

“Your audacity knows no bounds, Prince Alfonse!” she huffs, stepping forward to grab his wrist and then pulling him to the ground as well. “Tell me, what is the meaning of this?” She lifts her foot and presses it down onto the crown of his head, forcing him into an awkward bow.

“Don't blame us, Princess,” he growls, struggling to keep his head up in spite of the mounting pressure bearing down on it. “You were the one who sent for us, not the other way around!”

Veronica is quiet for a moment, and then she removes her foot. He's almost relieved until she grabs him by the hair and jerks his head up, crouching down before him so that their eyes meet. With her free hand, she deals him a sharp slap to the cheek.

“If you want me to gag you,” she says, “you need only ask. Or, if it's a more permanent solution you seek for that smart mouth of yours, I can arrange to have your tongue plucked from your head. Well?” she adds, pulling harder on his hair, making him groan. “What will it be? Will you comply?”

“Yes,” Alfonse gasps, fearful that she’ll pull his hair out by the roots.

She smiles then and releases him. Turning her attention to Felicia, who has gathered herself into a low bow, she says, “Leave us, maid.”

Felicia scrambles to her feet and hastily excuses herself, closing the door fully this time. Once she’s gone, Veronica returns her attention to him.

“Get up." She tugs at his hair again. “Onto all fours. Don't make me wait.”

Alfonse hastens to obey, eager to get her to release her hold on him. She does once he's on his hands and knees. He tries to stand only to have her push him back down by the shoulders.

“Stay,” she says, like he's her dog. “I need to get something first.”

Her words fill him with certain dread, but he's relieved to see her return with a mere book in her hands and not even a spell tome. She flips through it leisurely, though her eyes rarely linger over the pages. From her vantage point, she can surely see the outline of his backside through the fabric, possibly more; in this position, the gown only barely covers it. He drops his head between his arms, letting his hair sweep over it with the faint hope that she won’t see his flushed face. On top of everything, he doesn’t need her seeing the effect her abuse has on him.

He isn’t expecting it and so he very nearly collapses onto his stomach when she suddenly sits on the bridge of his back.

“What are you doing?” he cries, struggling to keep himself upright while supporting the brunt of her weight.

“I needed somewhere to sit,” she says simply. “Bruno took the sofa, and I don't want to be next to _him_ while I read.”

Alfonse looks up, and sure enough, Bruno is seated on the quilted sofa across the way, engrossed in some tome. But it’s far from the only piece of furniture in the large room.

“There’s an armchair there,” Alfonse bites out, nodding in the direction of it. “Right by the fireplace.” Veronica is heavier than she looks, and he isn’t at the pinnacle of health at present; his leg is weak from the wound to his thigh, and his chafed wrists burn from the strain of holding himself up by them.

“It isn’t very comfortable,” she sniffs in response.

“My back can’t be very comfortable, either."

“It is a bit bony,” she admits. “But I’m certain you must also have some beautiful muscles beneath your clothes.” She traces a finger along his bare neck, and he twitches. “Shall we check?”

“Don't,” he says, but she starts to peel back his collar anyway. “Princess, please! You mustn't--”

She silences him by clapping a hand over his mouth, tightly gripping his jaw. “Shut up. Who gave you permission to speak, hm? Not I.”

Her thumb finds his cheekbone and digs into it, and he grunts in pain, then again when she allows her book to fall from her hand, bouncing off the top of his head. She leans over his upper back, shifting her weight onto his shoulders, and whispers into his ear, “Don't forget--you belong to me now.”

With her weight so unevenly distributed, he can’t hold her up any longer; his arms wobble, and then his wrists lock and give out, and a moment later, they're both on the floor, he with his cheek bruising against the marble and she tangled up in her own limbs on top of him.

Bruno looks up from his book at last, and Alfonse swears he sees him smirk. Then he's on his feet, lifting Veronica gently by the shoulders until she, too, is standing again. There's a bit of blood on her lower lip where she must have bitten it, and that's the only thing Alfonse feels sorry for. Her expression is furious and yet somehow gleeful, and the contrast puts him on edge. With her index finger, she swipes the blood from her lip and licks it away. Then she steps on his left hand, pressing down harder until he hisses with pain.

“You’re not a very good sofa, are you?”

He only sets his jaw, saying nothing. She puts more pressure on his hand until she drags another noise out of him. “I suppose that calls for a punishment, then.”

Alfonse goes cold. “But I’m injured!” he cries, feeling ridiculous for even having to indulge her senseless logic. “You couldn’t possibly expect me to--”

He stops when her boot finds his mouth and nudges against it warningly. “You’re making me really want to put something in there." She taps his lips with her foot. “You know, like most men, you would be much handsomer if you couldn’t speak.”

Alfonse doesn’t dare respond, and she continues, “Can you imagine it? Your cute little cheeks all puffed out, a strip of cloth between your teeth… No, but not today.” She lifts her foot off his hand, retreats to the sofa. “Today, I want to hear you squeal like a stuck pig. Bruno! Bring him here!” She kicks out an oblong, crème-colored footstool from the sofa. “Lay him over this.”

Bruno picks him up under the arms and drags him across the room. His leg chains trail discordantly across the polished marble, almost deafening in the absence of other sounds. Bruno drapes him over the footstool on his stomach, though he’s too tall to fit comfortably; his head, neck, and arms hang off one end while his legs, knees slightly bent, extend well past the other. Veronica clambers onto him, and, to his further mortification, throws her legs around him, straddling his hips backwards so that she has full dominion over his lower half. He’s about to protest the arrangement when he recalls her threat and grudgingly keeps his mouth shut.

He can’t keep in the whimper that escapes him, however, when she brushes his gown up to his lower back, exposing his bare bottom to the open air.

“Mm, how cute..." He jolts when she lays a hand on his naked flesh. She giggles at his reaction, then cups his plumpness between her fingers, kneading and squeezing it. 

“No-- _please_ ,” he says before he can stop himself, but that only serves to encourage her. With her index finger, she draws a line down his crevice, ending somewhere hot between his legs, and he snaps them shut as best he can around the footstool.

“I suppose it's time for your punishment, then,” she says, and before dread can even fully take hold of him enough to wonder what exactly that will entail, she brings her hand down hard against his backside. Despite having such a small hand, the force with which she administers the blow is not lacking, and he yelps in surprise.

“Wow!” Veronica laughs. “That even stung me a bit--which means it must have hurt you quite a lot! How about twenty more to make sure you’ve learned your lesson, then?”

“No, no, _no_ ,” Alfonse pleads. “Princess, this isn’t necessary! I told you that I would comply, so please-- _argh_!”

She hits him again, this time more on the tailbone than the backside, and it hurts even worse than before.

“Oops, I missed!” she says, and her next strike lands on the fullest part of his bottom. He can no longer hold back the tears that have gathered in his eyes, and they fall to the floor in drops.

“What am I even being punished for?” he cries, his voice cracking at the end when she reaches out and rolls a bit of his smarting skin between her thumb and forefinger.

“Shush! It’s your mouth that gets you in the most trouble, you know! So keep it shut, and perhaps I will show you mercy." 

He doesn’t trust her at her word, of course, but determines it might be in his best interests to heed her advice at present. She is, after all, happy to hurt him irrespective of all reason, and so he has no choice but to play by her twisted rules.

So he bites his tongue when she brings her hand down again, the sound of skin on skin resounding throughout the room. The pain is nearly unbearable, but he forces himself to muffle his cries into his hand as she begins her countdown. One, two, three, four, all in rapid succession. Of course she doesn’t count the previous blows--she wants him to suffer, even if she has to bruise her own hand to prolong his anguish.

He makes a strangled noise on the fifth slap and outright screams on the seventh. He starts to bite his hand when she beats him eight, nine, ten times, saliva pooling at his lips and dripping to the floor. He moans on eleven and twelve when she strikes the tops of his thighs. A strange and not altogether unfamiliar sensation between his legs presents itself to him on thirteen, growing stronger on fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. In a moment of cold fear and disgust, he realizes his body is responding entirely inappropriately to his abuse.

“Seventeen,” Veronica says, whipping across his left side and causing him to buck and shove against the footstool. His problem is worsening, the friction between the fabric and his exposed privates only contributing to it.

“Eighteen.”

She hits his right side. He sobs, tears and saliva mixing in his hands as he holds his mouth, trying desperately to quiet his voice. His penis strains against the footstool, demanding release. He can’t understand why this is happening, but it will be the worst possible situation if Veronica discovers it.

“Nineteen.”

She hits him between the thighs again. She must feel the warmth that’s spreading there. Perhaps she mistakes it for the hot glow of his beaten skin. He can’t close his legs entirely with the footstool there, so he prays that she doesn’t investigate further.

“Twenty.”

A shuddering cry escapes his lips as the final blow lands smack in the middle of his bottom. His eyes are wet and red, and his backside blazes with hot pain. His problem has not dissipated like he hoped; in fact, it seems to have only gotten worse.

"I should have used a paddle," Veronica laments, blowing on her hand. "That hurt quite a lot. You must feel it as well, right, Alfonse?"

Shakily, he nods his head, still biting his hand. He needs to get out of here, get her to return him to his room. Perhaps if he acts compliant, she will grow bored with him and banish him from her presence for the day.

"See?" She pats his head fondly. "A good punishment was all that was required to remove that detestable attitude from you!" She runs her hand along his abused backside, and he cries into his hands, nearly overcome by a sickening amalgamation of pain, perverse pleasure, and embarrassment.

She pets his bottom awhile longer, aggravating the wounds there, which he's certain is her aim. Her fingers travel progressively lower, teasing his cleft, and once they reach the entrance of his thighs, he can stay silent no longer.

"Please, _please_ don't touch me there!" He know he's begging; he doesn't care.

Veronica's hand freezes. "I can touch wherever I like. After all, you are _mine_." Her hand slides forward as if to prove it and almost immediately stops again.

The next thing he knows, he's being rolled and shoved and kicked off the footstool and onto the floor, landing hard on his back. The blow to the back of the head momentarily dazes him, and it takes him longer than it should to realize his front is fully exposed and Veronica is gazing at it, aghast.

"No--no! Not there!" he moans, drawing his legs up with some difficulty (his stinging thighs don't want to cooperate) and thrusting his hands over his pelvic area, but it's already far too late for that.

"You disgusting creature!" Veronica shrieks. "What is  _that_? Have you become aroused by your punishment? Filthy, vile masochist!"

Alfonse shivers. "N-no!" he says weakly. "I-I'm not--!"

"Bruno--pick him up and set him on the stool with you!" she interrupts. "And hold his arms!"

Bruno does, stooping to retrieve Alfonse from the floor and drawing him up by the already sore wrists. He seats himself on the footstool and pulls Alfonse into his lap, pinning both hands behind his back with just one of his. Alfonse can see the state of his arousal now, and it makes him balk. 

"No--don't look!" He fights against Bruno's hold on him, but even the slightest movement triggers an intense pain in his bottom, forcing him still. 

"I see it already, stupid prince!" Veronica snaps. "What we must determine now is what to do about it!"

She cups her chin in her hand thoughtfully and begins to pace before them. Alfonse realizes that he’s shaking, but he can’t seem to get himself to stop. His penis stands up partway, the tip already damp and beading with fluid. Even as he tries to will it down, he can’t bear to look at it--what a sight he must be, the crown prince of Askr sitting on a man’s lap on his spanked bottom with his legs parted and his genitals on display for a lady who is not his wife! No--not just any lady but a princess, the princess of an enemy nation, and now she’s seen him at his most vulnerable.

“How about this,” the princess in question says at last, stopping in front of them and clasping her hands behind her back. “I'm in no humor to touch that wretched thing today. But I shall allow Bruno to pleasure you. He will take care of that vulgar problem of yours quite efficiently.”

Alfonse stares at her, partially in a daze from the surreality of it all. Pain and need are distorting his sense and reason to the point where her proposition almost sounds agreeable. Still, he cannot allow another man to handle him that way--what would his people say if they perceived their leader behaving as a mere whore? What would _Kiran_ say if he knew?

Wow, Alfonse. As a prince, I thought you had more poise--something like that, perhaps? Alfonse squeezes his eyes shut, but the image of Kiran's disgusted face does not vanish.

“If you choose to decline my kind offer,” Veronica goes on after a pause, “then you will be returned to your room in your present state, but your hands will be bound. I won't have you defiling my palace with such lascivious acts.”

It isn't just the pain in his groin; Alfonse can't stand to have his hands bound again, especially not when they have yet to recover from the last time.

“It’s your choice, Alfonse,” Veronica says softly, crouching before him and lifting his chin with the tips of her fingers. “What will it be?”

She’s too close; his penis pulses with desire, a desire his head can’t match. He doesn't want her--not in any capacity. Bruno, either. It wouldn’t mean anything, he tells himself, for Bruno to touch him. He wouldn’t be betraying--no. He doesn’t feel that way about Kiran. They hardly even have a relationship. He isn’t going to get close to him, not like he did with Zacharias. That’s what he promised himself, but…

“Alright,” he whispers, lowering his head.

“Hmm?” Veronica leans closer. “What was that, prince? Speak up!”

Alfonse swallows. “I-I said alright. He can do it. Just--just please-- _hurry_.”

Veronica looks on him smugly. “That isn't how one makes a request of one’s better,” she says, and Alfonse grits his teeth. “Tell him what you want, Alfonse. Say, 'Please touch me, Master!'”

His cheeks redden. “I-I can't...”

Veronica crosses her arms. “Very well. Bruno, tie him and take him back to his room.”

“No!” Alfonse straightens, wincing at the pain that shoots up through his spine. “I-I’ll say it!” He swallows again, but his mouth is bone-dry. “Please t-touch me, Master!”

He feels disgusting saying it, but the relief of Bruno's hand closing around his swollen penis almost makes it worth it. He inhales sharply, thrusts his hips into the touch without realizing it as Bruno starts to rub him up and down. His toes flex and curl with the ministrations of the familiar calloused hand on him, and the pain in his bottom as he brushes against Bruno’s lap only heightens his sensitivity. 

“Look at you!” Veronica drawls after a time. “You're panting like a bitch in heat!”

Alfonse groans, and she holds up her hand. “Stop, Bruno. I don't think he likes it.”

Bruno obediently desists, and Alfonse gasps, squirms in his hand. “No,” he breathes, suddenly aware of the sheen of sweat on his cheeks and brow. “No, please, don't--d-don't stop. I... I need...”

“Hm? What is it that you need?” 

He ducks his head, too ashamed to look at either of them, and himself as well. “I need... I need to... Please, t-touch me...”

“Master,” Veronica reminds him.

“ _Master_!” Alfonse spits out.

“You have to tell him exactly what you want, Alfonse,” she pushes. “Say, 'Please touch my slutty cock, Master!'”

Tears drip from his nose, wetting the lap of his gown. “Don’t make me say that,” he begs. “Please, it’s… it’s too much.”

“If you don’t say it,” Veronica says, “then you won’t get your release.” 

Alfonse wheezes as Bruno’s grip tightens only slightly. It’s maddening, the need to touch himself. He tries vainly to free his hands, but Bruno won’t release him.

“Ah, ah, none of that." Veronica taps his cheek with her pointer finger. “If you want it, you need to beg for it.”

He can’t take it anymore. It’s crossed the fine line of pleasure and ended up firmly in pain. He feels every twinge in his backside now, and his penis aches with need. He just wants to lie down and rest. And Veronica won’t let him without his pride in shambles.

“P-please,” he says at last, without lifting his head. “Please touch my slutty cock, Master.”

The gratification is nearly instantaneous; Bruno pumps him mercilessly, then runs his hand up his length to squeeze the tip until, after only moments, Alfonse is expelling his seed over his fingers in staggered bursts. For half a second, he's euphoric, overcome with both pleasure and relief. Then, as the afterglow fades even faster than it arrived, cold shame and humiliation settle over him.

Bruno releases his wrists and withdraws a handkerchief from the folds of his cloak, wiping his hand clean. Veronica, who left them the instant he finished, busies herself at the chest of drawers beside the sofa, searching for something within its depths. Alfonse unconsciously covers his lap with his hands, staring down at them in a stupor. He wants to get off of Bruno, but that involves moving, and he doesn’t think himself capable of even that anymore.

“You've given me an excellent idea,” Veronica says from somewhere behind him, “since you've proven that you can't be trusted on your own.”

She reappears before them with a handful of things from the chest of drawers, which she lays out on the footstool. She selects a length of red cord from the pile, and instinctively, Alfonse shies away. “Hold him, Bruno." Once again, his hands are pulled behind him.

“What do you mean to do now?” he demands as she kneels in front of him.

“I’m tying this dirty thing,” she says, looping the cord around his privates, “so that it has no occasion to misbehave.”

He struggles as she ties a snug knot around his base, but Bruno wraps a leg around both of his to further restrain him. Alfonse whines in helpless desperation as Veronica begins to wind the cord tightly around not just his penis but his testicles as well. Her touch excites him, to his disgust, but if she notices, she doesn’t heed his distress, continuing to wrap him until she runs out of cord. She knots it twice, thrice, four times, then stands to admire her handiwork.

“You are hereby strictly prohibited from touching yourself in any capacity. Your body and your pleasure belong not to you but to me. If you are to receive pleasure, it will be from me or on my orders. You do not own this.” She gives him a quick jerk, and he grunts, his penis throbbing in its bonds. “Do you understand?”

He doesn’t. He doesn’t _want_ to.

“ _Why_ are you doing this to me?” he asks her through a new bout of tears.

She looks at him as if the answer were obvious. “Because I want to.”

She turns to Bruno next. “Stand him up,” and he does. She picks up another of the items from before. Looking at it now, Alfonse sees that it's a garment resembling a breechcloth with a sturdy canvas pouch and strap at the front and an open back.

Veronica fastens the belt part of it around his hips, tight enough that it makes indentations in his skin. Then she draws the pouch down over his privates and pulls the strap between his legs and up through his crevice before securing it to the back of the belt. The garment is tight and restrictive, the strap between his legs invasive, and it hurts when she forces him to walk.

“Should you attempt to take it off,” she warns, pulling his gown back down over it, “then I will have your hands bound and a far worse device applied to you.”

He tries to glare through his tears, but she seems not to care. She glances at the other items on the stool but continues on to the sofa without touching them. “We’ll save the rest for another time."

She orders Bruno to remove him while she goes to recline on the sofa. Alfonse is hoisted up onto Bruno’s shoulder and carried through the door from which he arrived, then down the hall and back to his room. One-handed, Bruno opens his cell door and dumps him onto the bed. He unlocks his leg restraints, then leaves him with the instruction to signal with the handbell a need to relieve himself.

Once he's alone, Alfonse hurls himself under the covers, pawing at the breechcloth before he can even think to stop himself. Then he cries freely, curling up in the sheets with his head stuffed under the pillows because the less he has to see of himself, the better.

You're such a whore, Alfonse, the Kiran in his head tells him anyway, and now he thinks he really believes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long and lewd chapter is long and lewd. We're at E now because my sick mind went full ero with this. ;)
> 
> In regards to reader suggestions, I take them all into account and incorporate the ones that a) I planned to include anyway, and b) I can realistically work into the narrative. Thanks as always for reading and commenting! Let us meet again in the next chapter! <3


	5. An Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anna is Team Mom and Kiran summons his Persona.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that the next chapter is taking so long. I've been out for nearly ten days with a ridiculous, awful cold, and I'm only now on the mend. Since the chapter was taking me so long, and my head felt like it was full of cotton, I wrote this little intermission to hopefully tide you guys over. Hope you like some plot with your porn...

"Hello there, Summoner! Mind if I have a seat?" 

Kiran glances up from the tome he's been poring over for the last hour. "Princess Sharena," he says, surprised he didn't hear her enter. "What can I do for you?"

Sharena makes a face, dropping backwards over the chair across the table from him and resting her chin on her folded hands. "You can begin by calling me Sharena--just Sharena, like I've told you before."

He smiles. "Then how about you call me Kiran-- _just_ Kiran, like I've told _you_ before?"

Sharena chuckles. "Hey now, I'm trying to be more formal and princess-like, you know?" She lifts her head and pulls her cape out at the sides like a skirt, simulating a curtsy. "And, well... I suppose I shouldn't be getting too close to the heroes--including you, Kiran." She slumps back over her chair and starts picking at the wood of the backrest with her fingernail.

They're in the castle library, a large, circular room in the east tower with tall windows and taller bookshelves that line the walls and rise up to the domed ceiling in columns and rows. The space is inundated with old tomes and scrolls, some of which, including the one presently under Kiran's perusal, have not seen use in dozens, perhaps hundreds of years, if the rotting spines and thick casings of dust are anything to go by. It's a veritable garden of knowledge if one only has the patience to prune it.

That's proving to be more difficult a task than he originally anticipated, however. Like most writings not from the last hundred or so years, this book is transcribed in an ancient script of Askr that even Sharena has some difficulty translating. Kiran has a stack of reference books beside him, but despite his natural proficiency in languages, learning the script is slow-going, and he doesn't exactly have an abundance of time with which to do it. With a sigh, he snaps the book shut and pushes it aside, leaning back in his chair.

"You know I won't ever leave without telling you first," he says, stretching his arms over his head.

"I know," Sharena mumbles into her arm, flaking a bit of wood polish from the chair. "It's just, I worry. We've been abandoned before."

Kiran stands to stretch his legs as well--how long has he been cooped up here?--and casually lays a hand on the top of her head while he's at it, ruffling her hair. "Yeah," he says, "I get it--that constant fear of losing people. I wish I could promise to be here whenever you guys need me, but... I mean, I can't account for accidents happening in my world, either."

She lifts her head, inadvertently knocking away his hand. "Accidents?"

Kiran rubs at the back of his neck, regretting broaching the topic. "Well, you know," he says uncomfortably. "I could be hit by a car, or--"

"A car?"

"One of those horseless wagons I was telling you about."

In spite of herself, Sharena perks up. "Ah, yes. What a concept!" Her lightheartedness tapers out quickly, however, and she deflates. "I'm sorry. I understand you have other precious people in your life and obligations to them as well. And I know I'm probably being clingy..."

"No, not at all."

"It's just that I..." She stares at the floor, hair falling like curtains to shield her face. "I really miss him, you know? And I'm worried... This is the first time we've been apart, and to have it happen like this..."

Kiran slips his hand into the folds of his robes, feeling for the sleek outline of Breidablik. Just knowing it's there is something of a comfort; it's his only link home and, perhaps more importantly, his only way to help these people.

When did I get so invested, he can't help but wonder.

"We'll get him back," he says with such confidence that Sharena lifts her head to look up at him. "I won't stop looking for a way to bring him home. That, I _can_ promise."

"Ah-that's--yes--th-thank you!" Sharena cries, her face dissolving into its first true smile in days. "I'm so sorry--I know I shouldn't be moping, not at a time like this."

"It's understandable," Kiran says, holding out his hand to help her up from her seat. "That you've managed to stay so focused on the mission in spite of all of this is truly impressive. You're very strong, Sharena."

She flushes at the praise. "Thank you for saying so," she says. "But I need to be stronger. I need to do everything I can to help my brother. So, please, tell me what I need to do."

Kiran heads off into the stacks to where he left the stepladder and beckons for her to follow. "I'm still looking into various types of magic we might be able to use to our advantage," he says, nudging the stepladder slightly to the side before mounting it. "These old books are full of strange curses and enchantments that fall outside the conventional offensive magic our soldiers use."

"Was there anything in that one?" Sharena asks, jabbing her thumb toward the tome left abandoned on the table.

"From what I could gather, it was a lot of dark magic that called for some... unscrupulous methods to get it to work," he responds, drawing a book from the shelf and leafing through it briefly before returning it to its spot. "And while I'm sure Henry and Tharja would have no qualms about that, I don't think Alfonse would appreciate us using such methods for his sake. That, and"--he slides out a dusty scroll sandwiched between two large books and unfurls it, taking care to hold it away from his face--"unless transmogrifying Veronica into a mindless dragon will benefit our cause, I don't think it would be of much help." He sneezes into the cloud of dust anyway, nearly toppling the stepladder before Sharena can rush to stabilize it. "Thanks."

"I believe in you," she says as he climbs back down with the scroll. "If anyone can help my brother, it's you."

"And all of you," Kiran reminds her. "After all, I'm only the tactician--I can't fight. That's why I rely on you and the others to do the heavy lifting for me."

Sharena beams. "Of course! As a matter of fact, I've just returned from running drills with the new recruits! Let's see... Navarre is a little bit scary, but he's second to none with the sword and is willing to fight for us. Princess Sakura needs some encouragement, but once she feels confident in her own abilities, she'll be great among our ranks of clerics."

"Good," Kiran says, returning to his seat and spreading out the scroll on the table before him. "No, _excellent_. We need all the help we can get, and your leadership skills are invaluable. Speaking of which, where is Commander Anna?"

"She's right here," says a voice from the doorway, and both Kiran and Sharena turn to find Anna there, still in full armor, her face smeared with dirt and sweat. In her folded arms, she's cradling four glassy spheres that pulse with a soft rainbow light.

"Welcome back," Kiran says as Sharena bounds up to her to take two of the orbs and ferry them over to the table. "How was the scouting mission?"

"We could only find these four, I'm afraid," she sighs, setting the remaining two orbs onto the table next to the others before dropping into a seat beside them. "There just aren't as many out here as there used to be."

"Anything helps," Kiran assures her, running his fingers over the cool surface of one of the spheres. "I only need three more now to conduct another summoning session. Thank you, Anna."

"No, thank you," she says, "for everything you're doing for us. I know I summoned you for that purpose and all, but you _are_  still an outsider with your own life and responsibilities. There's nothing in it for you to help us, and yet here you are"--she gestures to the stack of reference books--"going so far as to even learn our ancient writing system for our cause."

"We truly are grateful to you," Sharena pipes up.

Embarrassed, Kiran pulls his hood up over his head and pretends to study the scroll. "You don't have to thank me," he mumbles. "I'm not just doing this for you guys--I'm doing it for myself as well. I'm not an outsider anymore--this world, and all of you, mean something to me now. Mean a lot to me." He thinks of Alfonse then, and his cheeks redden.

"Kiran!" Sharena cries, folding her arms around his neck from behind and hugging him close. "You mean the world to us, too!"

"Alright, alright," Anna says with a laugh, and Sharena pulls away, looking slightly flustered. "Enough of the gooey sentimental stuff for now. It's time to talk business. Do we have any new leads?"

"Our main priority is still summoning enough heroes to overwhelm Embla by numbers alone," Kiran says. "That way, we have the manpower to deal with the consequences of breaking the contract. As well as researching military tactics, I've also been looking into other types of magic we could use offensively, particularly magic that can influence the mind. Princess Veronica and her masked knight are both talented mages, but if we can get into their heads and bend them to our will even just a little, I think we'll be able to procure a huge advantage over them. In other words"--he taps the side of his head--"we can wage a bit of psychological warfare."

Anna brings her hand to her chin, rubbing it thoughtfully. "It's not a bad plan," she says. "But in order for it to work, provided that we uncover such an enchantment at all, we would need a spy to slip into Emblian territory and cast it on Veronica or her knight. And of the spies we count among our ranks, I don't think any are proficient in magic."

"That is a fatal flaw," Kiran admits. "Second only to my inability to discover this theoretical mind-altering magic. But," he adds, gesturing to the scroll, "I think I might be getting close. I've noticed that the last few writings I've studied, all dated to roughly five hundred years ago, seem to focus on subtler forms of magic that are meant to avoid detection by the subject once cast. If I continue to study magical practices from this time period, I'm sure I'll be able to find _something_ we can use."

Anna kicks up her leg and crosses it over her knee, leaning back in her chair as she does. "It may be a long shot," she says, "but it's better than a dead-end." She grins up at him. "I'm all for it! If we could pull something like this off, not only could we rescue Alfonse, we could also bring an end to this entire senseless war."

Sharena claps her hands together. "You have my support as well! Even if the chance is small, I'll do anything it takes to save my brother."

"I just hope it's not a fool's errand," Kiran sighs. "But I'll do my best. Anna, I'll need you to ask around to see if any of our thieves or ninja are proficient in magic. If, as I suspect, they are not, then please enlist the help of Cecilia to train any who show even the slightest magical inclination."

Anna hops to her feet with a hearty salute. "I'll do exactly that!" She makes for the door but pauses before leaving through it. "Dinner will be ready in about an hour, and I want to see both of you down there, no excuses. You need to eat well in order to keep up your strength--physical and mental. No more of this skipping meals nonsense!"

She looks particularly sharply at Sharena, then gives them both a cheeky wink, sticks out her tongue, and departs without waiting to hear their responses.

"She's like a bossy big sister sometimes!" Sharena laughs.

"She certainly is," Kiran agrees. "So I know she'll scold me for skipping dinner tonight."

Sharena starts. "Eh? You're leaving?"

He nods. "If I don't, I'll be missed--I've already been here too long. But don't worry about my stomach--I have a frozen pizza I was planning on heating up."

She gives him a quizzical look. "Pizza?"

"It's like a combination of bread and cheese and sauce." Just describing it is making him hungry. "It's a shame I have to miss the, ah, _delicious_ mutton, but that's the way it goes. I'll have to make do with my own food tonight."

He'd gotten off easy, he supposes, with Anna mistakenly thinking he'd been forgoing food in Askr with studious intent.

"But I hope _you_ haven't been skipping meals, Sharena," he adds, recalling Anna's pointed look in her direction.

She doesn't answer him, just wanders over to one of the windows silently, as if in a daze. Cautiously, he follows her.

"Do you think they're feeding him?" she asks at last, lowering herself down onto the sill.

Kiran stops, clenches his fists at his sides. "They have to," he says after a beat, "if they intend to keep him alive."

"I hope he's doing alright," she says, gazing out the window.

"He's strong. He knew what he was getting himself into."

Sharena nods slowly. "Yes, I know... It's just... He may not look it, but he gets lonely easily. He doesn't let himself get close to other people because of what happened in the past--he's afraid of being hurt again. And he's not even very popular with our people, you know."

That surprises Kiran. "He's not? But he's such a kind leader."

"Yes," Sharena says. "But he stands in our father's shadow. You see, our father was truly a phenomenal king--strong and kind, respected by everyone from aristocrats to commoners. And when he passed, my brother was suddenly forced to take on that role. But we were both so young--there was no way he could live up to the people's high expectations for him. He's done his best, but our father's legacy is a tough act to follow, and our people are jaded by war and low on empathy." She reaches out to touch the window, tracing a heart in the condensation with her pointer finger. "Even though he's a prince, my brother hasn't had it easy."

Kiran stays quiet, uncertain as to how to respond. He crosses his arms over his chest to drown out the silence with movement and watches as Sharena idly fills in the heart.

But," she continues after a moment, turning around to grin at him, "he seems a lot less lonely with you around. In fact, I'd say he's gotten pretty close to you, Kiran."

For some reason, her words--or perhaps it's her tone--make him blush. "I consider him a good friend as well," he says, shuffling his feet. "I'm glad that he's opened up to me."

"As am I," Sharena says, and then she frowns once more. "I just hope he isn't hurt. We've all seen how Princess Veronica treats heroes. What if she's--what if she's torturing him as we speak?"

The idea is horrifying, but Kiran tries to keep his face cool and relaxed for Sharena's sake. "Like I said, he's strong. And in adherence to the contract, she has to keep him alive, which should dissuade her from causing any serious harm to him." Sharena doesn't look particularly relieved, so he sits beside her on the windowsill, gently touches her knee. "We have to believe that he'll be okay and that we'll rescue him. And I swear on my life that I will do everything in my power to bring him back."

There are tears in her eyes now that she hastily swipes away. "I trust you," she says with a watery smile. "I trust you, Kiran."

He stands and helps her up with him. "Go find Anna," he tells her, releasing her hand. "I need to return to my world now, but she will stay beside you in my place."

"I know," Sharena says. "Everyone in the Order of Heroes is so wonderful. I'm so lucky to have everyone here!" She wipes her eyes again and laughs shakily. "Go on. Don't let me detain you any longer. When can we expect you back?"

"I'll be back tomorrow in the afternoon." He draws Breidablik from his robes, turns it over once in his hands. "Promise."

He outstretches his arm, offering her his pinky. She regards it curiously. "It's called a pinky promise where I'm from," he explains. "Lock your pinky finger with mine. It means I can't break my promise no matter what."

"How silly!" Sharena teases, but she curls her pinky around his anyways. "Then we'll see you tomorrow. That's a promise."

He nods once before releasing her finger. Then he raises Breidablik to his temple. "Go eat," he orders. "And get a good night's rest. I need you in top shape, understood?"

"Understood, sir," she says, much more cheerfully now. She pauses, then adds, "Take care, Kiran."

He closes his eyes, pulls the trigger, and is gone in a burst of iridescent light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sharena loves Kiran... like a brother. ;3 Also, I figure since Breidablik summons heroes by firing them out, then Kiran shooting himself with it would un-summon him... or something.
> 
> Thank you all for your patience. The good news is that the next chapter is well underway, and I've already got the whole story plotted out for the most part, barring, of course, any new and spontaneous ideas I may come up with in the interim. See you next chapter. :)


	6. Despondent Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfonse trips around like a shoujo heroine and Felicia is only slightly less clumsy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back online! Thank you all for your continued support! <3

Alfonse spends the rest of the day in his room under the covers of his bed. The duvet is thick and dark, blotting out light to the point where he soon loses track of time, though that hardly matters. Of what concern is time to him when each approaching hour is just as perilous as the last?

His privates hurt. The cord squeezes the length of him and cruelly pries him apart from himself. The pouch of the undergarment keeps him from touching and thus loosening it, and Veronica’s threat that a worse device will be applied to him should he make the attempt keeps him from wanting to try, anyway. That she apparently possesses such a device startles him, for it reveals this is not her first time employing this strange and obscene torture with her prisoners. Upon learning, once in her custody, that she had no intentions of treating him humanely in accordance with Zenith's Code of War Ethics, he expected to be whipped, certainly, and perhaps cut and beaten and even burned, and maybe deprived of food and drink and sleep as well. But to be so intimately abused by her as he has been is so far outside the realm of conventional torture that he never gave it any consideration at all--and in fact could never have conceived of it. His humiliation, too, is of a different sort than what is typically administered to war-prisoners and has had far more profound an effect upon him than he ever could have imagined--or perhaps he always gave himself far too much credit.

He doesn’t want to think about what she’ll do to him next. He doesn’t want to think much at all. He likes being in the dark. It feels safe, concealing, smothering his erratic thoughts along with the light. He doesn't have to see himself in it, either; he can forget about his lower half, at least at times. Then he'll turn slightly to change position, and the strap of the breechcloth will tug against him, reminding him that it's there, that this morning was not a mere nightmare. He cries after a while, feeling so dirty and ashamed that he almost wishes he would die.

At some point, somebody comes to deliver food to him. He suspects it isn't Felicia, for whoever it is doesn’t speak, merely leaves the tray before departing. He ignores the meal, whatever it is; he isn't hungry for anything, and further, the thought of having to eventually use the chamber pot fills him with certain dread. He resolves to put it off as long as he can, even as the pressure in his bladder steadily begins to mount.

He sleeps on and off and always remembers his dreams. Sometimes, they’re pleasant, snippets of him and Sharena as kids playing in the sunshine (is that a memory?), of everyone together celebrating a great victory in the dining hall, of lying under the old sycamore tree in the castle's central courtyard with his head in Kiran’s lap (he never let himself get close enough for _that_ to be any more than a fantasy).

But mostly, they’re nightmares--one where he’s trapped in a tiny room and slowly asphyxiating, another where he’s eternally wandering an empty Askr Castle, never finding whatever it is that he's searching for. The worst is one where he’s bound hand and foot with red cord and Kiran, his face a fleshy blur, is sitting on his chest flipping through a fire tome, never mind that he can’t actually use magic, and slowly burning them both together. When, sobbing, Alfonse asks him why, his face is suddenly transfigured into that of Zacharias, and he says, in a voice hoarse with smoke, “Gods, you’re so needy. Sorry, Al, but this is the only way.”

He wakes up from that dream with the front of his undergarment damp and the mortifying realization that he’s partially wet himself. He whimpers, clutches indecently at his groin. His bladder is still uncomfortably full, but even if he were to signal for assistance now, whoever came to his aid would see the wet spot. He has no choice but to wait until he’s dry again.

He tries to focus his attention instead on calming down. It isn’t the first dream he’s had of Zacharias, but it’s by far the most unpleasant, so vivid he could almost smell the burning flesh. Zacharias isn’t capable of magic, either, as far as he knows, and yet the dream feels entirely too realistic for him to simply discount it as complete imagination.

After all, it’s what he said that rings the truest. Is he really needy?

He doesn’t know how long he mulls it over, but eventually, he becomes aware of footsteps outside his room, then the sound of the bolt being drawn back. He stiffens as the door creaks open and somebody enters.

“Get up.”

It’s Bruno’s voice. Alfonse shifts under the blankets but doesn’t get up.

“You’ve been in there since yesterday.” So it’s a new day already. “For how long do you intend to sulk? You need food and exercise, so get up. Now.”

Reluctantly, Alfonse pulls the covers down to his chin. The sunlight streaming through his window in bars momentarily blinds him. He narrows his eyes against it, looking rather like he's glaring, and he hopes Bruno gets the message. “Why?" he says stiffly. "So that your princess can torture me again? No, I think I would rather remain in my cage if it’s all the same.”

“It is _not_ all the same. I’m ordering you up, and you would be well advised to oblige.”

Alfonse doesn’t move. He wonders if Bruno will actually hurt him. Some small, nihilistic part of him welcomes the possibility.

Bruno unlocks the cell door and lets himself in. Before Alfonse can even try to scramble away, he has the covers pulled back and is dragging him up onto his knees by the arms.

“Let go!” Alfonse cries. Bruno ignores him and whips up his gown, and he flinches, braces himself to be hit. But Bruno only runs his fingers lightly over the swollen skin of his bottom, feeling for marks. Alfonse sucks in a breath when he inadvertently presses into a bruise.

“It’s still red, but there seems to be no serious damage,” he reports, withdrawing his hand.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“You are fortunate Her Majesty did not use a strap,” Bruno says rather severely. “This much should heal in short order.”

“It still hurts,” Alfonse grouses.

“I never said that it didn’t.” Bruno helps him off the bed, releasing him only when he’s standing on his own. “Have you used the commode at all?” he asks sharply then, and Alfonse stares miserably at the floor. “Tsk. Foolish boy.”

He unhooks the strap from the back of the breechcloth, allowing it to pass between Alfonse’s legs before nudging him toward the commode. “You should have no inhibitions now. You’ve done it in front of me twice already.”

“That doesn’t mean I like it!” Alfonse snaps. “It’s humiliating!”

“Perhaps for a prideful, spoiled little prince.”

Alfonse grits his teeth, but his heavy bladder won’t afford him time to argue, not now that he’s thinking about it again.

“Will you untie this at least?” he asks in a smaller voice than he intends to. He doesn’t turn around, but he knows Bruno understands his meaning.

“There’s no need,” is the dismissive response. “You can urinate with it on.”

Alfonse feels his cheeks reddening, both in anger and embarrassment. Part of him wants to scream like a child, the other, retain his princely dignity. He settles for something in between, stomping up to the commode and thrusting open the top. In his wretched state, he has to sit on the chamber pot, which he does with his back turned defiantly toward Bruno, though it hardly makes him feel better. Morbid curiosity gets the best of him, though, and he can’t help but look down between his legs.

His penis is coming to be as red as the rope binding it. Just the sight of it is enough to send heat crawling up through his cheek, though he’s distressed to find it faintly arousing as well. He hates Veronica for making him this way, for making him wicked and perverse. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on his anger because the bonds are already tight enough, and he dreads to consider what might happen if he gets any bigger.

Bruno is right, and he has no trouble making water once he overcomes his shyness. Reluctantly, because he knows Bruno will do it if he doesn’t, he brings the strap of the breechcloth back between his legs and struggles to buckle it to the belt behind his back. He feels Bruno’s hands on his, assisting him, tightening the strap until he has to stand on tiptoes in an attempt to avoid it, though that doesn’t offer him any leniency when Bruno pushes him back down onto his heels. He winces at the pull between his backside, leaning forward to grip a bar for support.

“I hate this,” he says, resting his forehead against the bar. “I hate every minute of this. Why must she torment me? When have I ever wronged her?”

“You are Askran royalty,” Bruno says from behind him, “and you did not submit to her. That is enough.”

Right, Alfonse thinks. Of course it is.

“You're going to eat,” Bruno continues, guiding him to the desk, where a hearty breakfast has already been laid out for him--someone must have come and replaced his untouched dinner while he slept. “Then we will walk the gardens.” He tries to push him down onto the stool, but Alfonse resists.

“Please, I”--he bites his lip, staring at the stool--”I need a pillow there or something! Don't make me sit like this!”

To his genuine surprise, Bruno obliges, taking one of the thicker pillows from the bed and setting it on the stool. Alfonse doesn't thank him--he's too bashful for that now--but he does sit and eat as directed. His bottom is still sore, but the pillow helps, and so he makes no complaints as he quietly partakes in the meal.

When he finishes, he stands and allows Bruno to put shackles on his wrists and ankles. If he’s going to resist, he reasons, now is not the time for it. He will oppose Veronica at every turn just short of escaping--he won’t break that damnable contract--but Bruno need not witness such efforts. Unlike Veronica, he seems not to care if Alfonse is broken or not.

They leave the room immediately after. Bruno doesn’t take his arm as he is accustomed to doing; for once, he appears content to let him walk on his own, though the shackles would prevent him from getting very far should he try to run.

“Do you really think I’m considering escaping?” Alfonse asks, and Bruno casts him a curious sidelong glance.

“Does the answer to that inquiry matter very much to you?”

Alfonse thinks for a moment. “Yes,” he says at last. “Yes, it does. I have been trying my hardest to enact cooperation between Askr and Embla, between Princess Veronica and myself, but if Her Majesty does not possess an ounce of trust in me, then such lofty aspirations are doomed to fail. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Bruno smirks. “That’s very diplomatic of you.”

“I prefer to resolve conflicts without bloodshed, yes. And Her Majesty’s noncompliance is--”

“Is her way. She does not trust. She does not show mercy. Like her father before her, she hungers for conquest and war.”

“So you're saying she will never trust me--or Askr.”

“I would not get my hopes up.”

Alfonse sighs. “Then what was her aim in taking me prisoner at all? I surrendered myself on the condition that she would not engage Askr and that we would not oppose her in turn. I thought perhaps we could eventually arrive at a mutually beneficial compromise. But if she is as belligerent as you say, then she must still intend to conquer Askr!”

“I will not speculate on the princess's motives in doing what she did,” Bruno says. “She is fickle and often ruled by her caprices. Perhaps, rather than diplomacy, your focus should instead be on ensuring her interest in you does not wane.”

Alfonse goes cold at the thinly-veiled threat. Surely Veronica wouldn't break her own contract, would she? And yet the possibility is very real; when has she ever played by the rules--including her own?

Bruno appears to notice his sudden gloominess, for he adds, “I will use what influence I have over her, little though it may be, to keep her from attacking your kingdom or taking your life needlessly.”

Somehow, this doesn't make Alfonse feel much better.

“B-but the contract,” he says, helplessly. “She drew it up herself--surely she's satisfied with the terms? If she intends to break it, then what's keeping me from doing the same? I would be better served escaping from here and leading my army--”

“Don't misunderstand,” Bruno says, cutting him short. “Princess Veronica has no intentions of breaking the contract.”

“But you said--”

“I said that the princess is fickle and that I would do everything in my power to protect you from that facet of her personality. That is all.”

It's hardly reassuring, though Veronica's volatile temperament is far from unknown to him. Perhaps Bruno's support will prove to benefit him, even in a small way. 

“What exactly is your relationship to the princess?” he asks after a moment. “You seemed quite familiar with her yesterday--using her given name. Are the two of you related?” It isn’t too much of a stretch; the family tree of Embla’s royalty is vast and convoluted.

For a long while, Bruno remains silent. Just when Alfonse thinks he isn't going to answer, he says, “That is of no concern to you.”

Alfonse sets his jaw. “But it is. I think you have more influence over her than perhaps you're letting on. And if you could use that influence to persuade her--”

Bruno stops walking so suddenly that Alfonse nearly runs into him. Before he can back away, Bruno has him pinned against the wall, holding him up by the chain of his manacles so that his arms are stretched high over his head and he's made to stand on the tips of his toes.

“What gave you the impression that I was on your side, little prince?”

Alfonse scrapes against the wall behind him with his bare foot, trying to gain some leverage. The manacles pull tight against his bandaged wrists, his own body weight serving to increase the painful pressure.

“Stop!” he gasps. “You're hurting me!”

But Bruno holds him there a while longer, watching him struggle until his exerted grunts fade into pained whimpers. Then, finally, he lets him go, allowing him to drop to the floor on his hands and knees.

“Get up,” he orders, turning his back on him, “and remember your place, prisoner.”

For some reason, the word stings coming from him, though Alfonse is well aware of the nature of their relationship. Weakly, he picks himself up, bringing his throbbing wrists to his chest. He's shaken, which only makes it harder to walk with his shackled feet. He stumbles almost instantly when he attempts to descend the stairs, managing to catch himself before he falls, but it gets Bruno's attention, makes him stop and turn around.

“Come on,” he says, and Alfonse flinches when he reaches out his hand, but he only grasps his arm with it, offering support.

They continue on for some time before Bruno speaks again. “You have my apologies,” he says, and Alfonse looks up at him in surprise and wonder. “I find that lately, I... lose command of myself. I should not have hurt you like that.”

“It didn't seem like you,” Alfonse admits, “to inflict wanton cruelty. You told me yourself that my debasement means nothing to you.”

“I have no penchant for undue suffering,” Bruno says, almost defensively.

“Yes, right... But may I ask what you meant by losing command of yourself? Do you mean in anger?”

Bruno barks out a laugh. “How trite." Then he sobers. “It isn't something that can be so easily tamed. It is... an affliction, of sorts. The same which ails Veronica.”

Alfonse stops there, nearly tripping again when Bruno fails to do the same. “What do you mean?” he asks, quickly catching up. “Her Majesty is afflicted with some ill that makes her behave the way she does?”

“You would not understand,” Bruno says, and then, before Alfonse can object, “Speak no more on this subject. I should never have brought it up.”

Unwillingly, Alfonse falls silent. The last thing he wants right now is to run afoul of Bruno's temper again--or whatever _that_ was.

They end up in a sunlit garden so rich and vast that it seems almost like a forest; indeed, there is a tree line far off in the distance that appears to lead to just that. Lilacs, camellias, and hydrangeas bloom all around them, the air thick with their perfume and the humming of pollinating bees. A large, elevated rock pool toward the center of the garden feeds into an intricate system of streams that weave amongst flowerbeds and cobblestone paths. Scattered throughout are ornately carved benches and white gazebos and little arced bridges, immaculate like dollhouse furniture.

There are servants here, too, tending to the plants, and Alfonse recognizes more than a few of them as summoned heroes. He can't help but wonder why Veronica retains them here as domestic servants rather than sending them off to fight in her army. Wasn't that one of her primary motivations for raiding other worlds--to amass more soldiers? Then he thinks back on his punishment at her hands and wonders if perhaps he isn't the only one receiving such treatment.

The cobblestones are warm and rough beneath his bare feet as Bruno urges him to step onto them, guiding him down one of the many pathways into the garden. They only take a few steps, however, before a familiar voice rings out.

“Prince Alfonse!”

Alfonse turns his head and perceives with a sudden thrill of warmth Felicia dashing toward him from across the garden. Partway there, her shoe catches in what must be a crack in the path (for there is nothing else there she could have tripped on), nearly bringing her to her knees, but, admirably, she manages to correct herself at the last second. She skids to a halt before them, doubled over and out of breath.

“Clumsy maid,” Bruno scoffs. “What do you think you're doing?”

“I-I'm very sorry, sir,” she pants, hurriedly adjusting her dress. “I didn't want to lose sight of you, and I must see how Prince Alfonse is doing.” She finally lifts her head, and it's then that Alfonse realizes she has a bandage covering very nearly the entirety of the left side of her face.

“Felicia, that wound!” he cries, stepping forward with the intent of examining it closer. “How did--”

“If you mean to ingratiate yourself with him because he is a prince,” Bruno interjects, putting a firm hand on his shoulder to detain him, “then don’t. Royalty though he may be, he is now and for the foreseeable future Princess Veronica's prisoner. I suggest you not rouse her ire by getting too close to him.”

Alfonse frowns, but Felicia merely bows. “I understand, sir, but I have my orders from Her Majesty herself and only mean to confirm his condition as directed. As you know, under this contract, I cannot disobey her.”

Alfonse glares up at Bruno. “You would deprive me of what little pleasant company I'm afforded here?”

“I could have you bound and gagged in the dungeons round the clock without even the dignity of clothes if it so amused me, you foolish, entitled prince,” Bruno returns coldly. “But fine--do as you will. It makes no difference to me.”

A sudden, explosive shout draws their collective attention to the rock pool then. An imposing man, regal in dress and aspect and wielding a decorated spear, towers over a meek-looking servant.

“Where is she?” he demands, his voice carrying across the garden. “Where’s Eirika?”

The servant mutters something in response, but the man--Alfonse recognizes him now as Prince Ephraim of Renais--appears not to be listening.

“If you fools have done something to her, then I swear on this lance Siegmund that I will personally put an end to all of your miserable lives!”

Bruno grimaces and releases his hold on Alfonse. “Watch him, maid,” he tells Felicia without even turning to look at her. “This should only take a moment.”

He stalks off toward the combative Prince Ephraim without waiting for her assent.

“This happens quite often,” she says quietly. “Usually whenever Her Majesty contracts another hero.”

“I can imagine,” Alfonse says even as he recalls Kiran’s summoning sessions and their infinitely more agreeable ambience.

“In any case, would you like to sit, Your Highness?” Felicia gestures to one of the garden benches.

“I... would rather stand, thank you,” Alfonse says, and happily, she doesn't press the issue. “But please, Felicia, you must tell me what happened to your face! I dread to think that I'm the cause of it.”

Felicia throws up her hands, forcing a smile. “Please don't trouble yourself over it, milord. It's a small wound that scarcely warrants your attention.”

“But your entire cheek is bandaged!" he cries. "Tell me, is this Princess Veronica's doing?”

Felicia hesitates tellingly. “N-n-no, not precisely,” she stammers, though his disbelief is clear upon his face. She hangs her head. “W-well, Her Majesty was very angry with me for yesterday's blunder, you see. So when she called me in for my punishment, I brought her tea with the hopes of calming her. But she flew into a rage as soon as I walked in, and, well... One of the cups broke, and...”

She trails off, touching the injured cheek with bandaged fingers.

“I am _so_ sorry, Felicia,” Alfonse says, shamefaced. He looks to the side instead of her, squeezes his hands together. “None of this is your fault. If you hadn’t been assigned to me...”

“Then it would have happened to another servant, Your Highness,” she says gently. “And if that's the case, I would rather it be me. I'm quite tired of letting other people suffer to compensate for my weaknesses.”

She stares off, too, as if recalling some painful memory. It takes her more than a few moments to shake herself out of it. “Well, my injury is not important right now. I'm more concerned about you, milord. Though you appear to be in fair condition, I know Her Majesty must have done something truly terrible to you! Are you alright?”

Alfonse anxiously shifts his weight from one foot to the other, wincing at the pain in his backside that the motion triggers. “I'm... fine,” he says at length. “It isn't anything I can't handle.” Even as he says them, he isn't certain just how true those words are.

“Excuse me for saying so,” Felicia says, twining her fingers together, “but I suspect that you are lying.” She reaches up to her undamaged cheek and runs her knuckles across it. “You have a large bruise here that was not there yesterday. And you look to be in a good deal of pain when you walk.”

Alfonse raises his hands to the spot on his face that she indicated. It's where Veronica slapped him and where he landed when he collapsed onto the floor. The skin is tender to the touch.

“Your Highness..." She looks so apologetic, twisting her apron between her hands. "Were you... Were you _tortured_?”

“I...” Alfonse freezes, shivering as he recalls the beating, the state of his genitals, his own whorish display. “I-I'm sorry,” he gasps. “I would rather not speak of it.”

Felicia balks. “I-I understand! I apologize for prying! I only meant to--I mean--if you were to--” She fidgets, appearing even more agitated than ever. “I'm on your side, Prince Alfonse,” she settles on at last. “So if there's anything I can do for you--anything at all--I would be more than happy to do it. Just... just let me know!”

There seems to be an unspoken meaning in her words, but Alfonse doesn't dare let himself believe it. Surely the contract wouldn't allow her to harbor such thoughts. Only some of the more powerful heroes are able to question, let alone fight against, the contract that keeps them in Veronica's servitude--at least, as far as he's ever witnessed.

“Are you suggesting that I...?” he starts reluctantly, but she's quick to jump in.

“Suggesting? Me? No, nothing! I'm not suggesting anything!” She gives a nervous laugh, waving her hands around. “Sir Bruno is coming back,” she adds, glancing over his shoulder. “I'll try and slip you a nice dessert with your meal tonight, okay? Though I suppose I'll owe Jakob another favor...”

“Please don't get into trouble on my behalf,” Alfonse says earnestly. “Though your kindness toward me is infinitely appreciated.” He's reminded then of a niggling thought from earlier. “Were you the one who delivered my food last night?”

But she shakes her head. “Since I was indisposed, it must have been another servant. There are quite a few of us who do such domestic tasks around here. I will be back tonight, however.”

A hand falls on Alfonse’s shoulder then, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“What are you doing?” Bruno asks from behind him, and Alfonse exhales sharply.

“You scared me,” he grumbles, and then: “We weren’t doing anything. Just talking.”

Bruno pulls him toward him, sliding his hand down his shoulder to grip his upper arm. “We’re going.” He glances at Felicia. “Run along, maid.”

She bows. “Yes, sir.” She catches Alfonse’s eye, giving him a meaningful look before turning and hurrying off toward the direction of the palace.

Reluctantly, Alfonse allows himself to be led into the maze of pathways and deeper into the garden. They walk in silence, and though the sights are beyond magnificent, he finds he cannot enjoy them. His thoughts instead turn to Askr. It’s only the fourth day of his captivity, and he understands, rationally, that any schemes to rescue him could only be in their infancy. He wonders how Sharena’s doing without him. She must be fine--she’s never been _needy_. He thinks about Anna, but what could she possibly require of him? Her military prowess vastly outstrips his. His people have never cared for him, either; perhaps they even relish his absence. He can imagine current public sentiment: Giving himself to Embla was the one good thing he ever did for them.

And then there’s Kiran...

With this, you’ve finally made yourself useful, Alfonse--yes, he can even hear it in his voice now. The thought hurts, even more so when he can’t deny its veracity. After all, what has he ever done for anyone? He’s a subpar replacement for his father, an underwhelming soldier after Anna and Sharena and all of their summoned heroes, a poor tactician compared to Kiran. He isn’t outstandingly handsome, he’s outmatched at his own weapon of choice, and his distant personality leaves much to be desired, he’s certain. What, then, is his purpose in existing? Isn’t he much better suited as a hostage than a king--a pawn to be used and then discarded at the leisure of a clever but apathetic chess master?

He isn’t paying much attention to where he’s going and so has no time to attempt to catch himself when he stumbles again. Bruno let go of him some time ago, and so he lands hard on his knees on the cobblestone. The shock of the impact hardly registers with him; his brain is distracted by an entirely different kind of pain.

“Are you alright?” Bruno asks, curling a hand around his arm to help him up, but Alfonse doesn’t move.

“What’s the point?” he asks. His voice quakes, and tears already slick his cheeks, dripping onto his wrists and hands.

“What are you saying?” Bruno's hand goes slack on his arm. “What’s wrong with you?”

Alfonse hiccups, mentally scolding himself for his childish display, but he can’t seem to stop. “Why am I even here? I'm _worthless_. Unneeded and unnecessary. I'm... just a _prize_ to be won, a trophy to be displayed, a toy to be played with till I fall apart at the seams. I’m"--he gasps, chokes on his own saliva, which is pooling thick in his mouth--" _expendable._  I'm not needed in my own kingdom--not by my people or my commander or--or my summoner or even my own sister.” It's all so ridiculous that he can’t help but laugh through his tears. “I suppose I really am... all alone.”

He wants to curl up there on the hot path and perhaps melt into it, but Bruno's there beside him, sliding his hands under his arms and hoisting him back to his feet. His knees are skinned and bleeding, leaving smudges of red against the white stone. Bruno makes sure he’s decently stable before crouching down in front of him.

“Get on my back,” he says. Alfonse stares, caught off-guard by the order. “I’m taking you back to your room. You look as if you can hardly stand, so do as I say. Now."

Alfonse doesn’t really want to have to endure the embarrassment of riding piggyback astride a man very near him in age, but he’s in no humor to disobey a direct order of the one presently in charge of his freedom, either. Cautiously, he lowers himself against Bruno’s broad back, clutching his shoulders as best he can with his bound hands. Bruno slips his arms around his legs and stands, and Alfonse scrambles to tighten his hold. His knees make contact with his sides, probably staining his cloak with blood, he realizes guiltily. Bruno makes no comment on it, however, as he starts to carry him back to the palace.

“Were you not loved, your army would not have continued to fight for you even after you were taken away," Bruno says after some time has passed in silence.

Alfonse lifts his head. “What do you mean?” It's a strange thing to say, all considered; perhaps he’s misheard.

“Hmph. Why do you suppose Prince Xander and I arrived long after the rest of our company had set up camp? We had to deal with the tatters of your army that refused to give in, despite the contract that you signed of your own free will.”

Alfonse suddenly feels slightly dizzy, though perhaps his freely bleeding knees are to blame. “No… That... That can't be true...”

His grip is loosening without his realizing it; Bruno shifts him higher up onto his back as they enter the palace. “Of course it's true. The fools rallied around you like a martyr, though it amounted to little. Still, you are lucky that their rash actions did not cause the princess to nullify the contract.”

Alfonse can't believe it--if what Bruno is saying is true, then not just Sharena and Anna and Kiran but his whole army fought a futile fight to restore him. They _wanted_ him back. He sniffles, nearly overcome, and buries his face into Bruno's cloak without thinking. Somehow, that man does not attempt to remove him.

When they arrive back at his room, Bruno sets him on his bed, removes his restraints, and orders him to stay put while he goes to retrieve something--he doesn't say what. He returns only minutes later with a damp cloth, a jar of salve, a handful of gauze pads, and a roll of bandages. Alfonse shudders when he touches the cloth to his right knee to clean it.

"Always making such a mess of things," Bruno grumbles. "When will you learn to behave yourself?"

"Sorry," Alfonse mutters, hardly meaning it, but he's too drained to argue.

“Now lie still and don't cause any more trouble for me,” Bruno says peevishly as he finishes winding a bandage around a piece of gauze to secure it in place. “The princess will not send for you today, so you should take this chance to relax and recover.”

“Right,” Alfonse says, still partially in a daze. “Thank you.”

But when Bruno leaves, Alfonse doesn’t return to bed. Instead, he takes a book from the shelf--some volume on the history of the Emblian Empire--and sits on the tuffet under the window with pillows from his bed placed on the seat and against the wall behind his back.

Ever since his father died, whenever he was feeling overwhelmed, he found that reading a dry text was just the thing to take his mind away from his own thoughts where sleeping would only exacerbate them. Now, perhaps more than ever, he must remain lucid and even-headed. He reminds himself of his promise to Veronica that no matter what, she will not break him.

More importantly, he won’t let himself break him, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to give one of my new favorite characters a small cameo. :>
> 
> This was a bit of a breather chapter, but I promise the lewdness will return tenfold next time with the inclusion of some fan favorites (?), so I hope you look forward to it! Also, this was kind of my "take that" against the large number of FE Heroes players who trash on my boy Al for all the things he mentions in this chapter--basically being an uninteresting sword lord Marth clone--while holding up Sharena as this paragon of originality. Hey, I like 'em both, but please don't pick on my poor, angsty son, okay? #PleaseProtectThisChild :3
> 
> See you next time!


	7. Possessive Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Veronica is outed as a fujyoshi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, I wonder if I make Veronica too sadistic. Then things like 10-5 happen, and I think, nah, she’s good.
> 
> I’m just going to add a blanket noncon warning to this since, while the straight-up sex acts will generally be _very_ dubious in consent, there are plenty of noncon _things_ of varying sexual natures that will happen (molestation, sexualized torture, etc.).

Alfonse spends the larger part of the next day alone in his room, much to his own surprise. He speaks briefly with Felicia over breakfast, inquiring about Princess Veronica’s plans for him for the day (she doesn’t know) and when he’ll be allowed to bathe again, as he’s going on three days without and is starting to feel markedly unclean (she’ll make a request on his behalf). Though she won’t say it, he can tell that she isn’t keen on staying longer than necessary, and he certainly can’t blame her. So, for his own peace of mind as much as for her safety, he instructs her to clean her wound and then sends her on her way. He can’t bear to admit even to himself that he’s lonely without her.

As morning fades to noon, his anxiety at being summoned by Veronica gradually begins to wane. Perhaps she won’t see him today after all. It isn’t as if Bruno can predict her whims better than she can. So he settles down with a book, this one on Emblian horticulture, and tries to take some small measure of comfort in the scant pleasantries he’s afforded; the soft pillows beneath him, the warmth of the sun streaming through the window, the quiet and relative privacy of his room.

Reading helps keeps his mind off the pain as well. His bottom is still swollen from his spanking, making it difficult to sit straight for long stretches of time, much to his chagrin. His knees are sore (his own fault), and his wrists (Bruno’s), and his groin is a mass of sensitivity, hot and cold all at once and unpleasantly tender to the touch. He doesn’t hold his bladder needlessly anymore, but he doesn’t look down when he empties it, either. He’s afraid of what he’ll see if he does; it wouldn’t much surprise him to find himself permanently mutilated by the tightness of the cord.

Despite the relative calm of his afternoon, the moment he hears the sound of the bolt on his door being drawn, his heart slips into his stomach. Reluctantly, he looks up, feeling even sicker when he perceives Bruno entering his room and making a beeline for the cell door, key ring already in hand.

“Get up,” he says as he fits the key into the lock. “Veronica will see you now.”

Alfonse swallows, finding his throat dry. “What does she want?” he manages to get out as he pulls himself to his feet.

Bruno pauses for a moment, looks almost like he’s hesitating. It makes Alfonse even more on-edge.

“She wants to play,” he says at last, taking him by the arm and guiding him out. “I don’t know any more than that.”

“O-okay,” Alfonse practically squeaks, his heart setting to pounding against his ribcage. Though Bruno looks uncertain about the situation, Alfonse doesn’t dare ask him for help. He has no allies here, he must remind himself, excepting, perhaps, Felicia, who is contractually forbidden from rendering him aid. He’ll have to face Veronica entirely on his own.

When they reach the sitting room, Alfonse is unsettled when Bruno orders him in alone. Thinking on it now, it’s strange that he isn’t tied or chained like he usually is when he’s taken from his room. He isn’t certain if it’s a good sign or not, and he doesn’t have long to consider it; Bruno nudges him toward the door, and he’s forced to take his first steps into the room beyond.

Nothing about the room is particularly ominous, but a flood of memories from his last stint within it renders the space inhospitable to him. He sees Veronica sitting on her footstool with her back to him and her chin resting in her palm. His stomach twists when he notices the cruel-looking riding crop lying across her lap, still but latent. She turns her head when she hears him enter, a frown creasing her lips.

“Oh, you’re finally here!” she cries, perking up at once. “What a terribly boring performance this has been, but I have plenty of fun things planned for _you_ , Prince Alfonse!”

“Princess Veronica,” he responds uneasily. “What are you--?”

But he stops when he realizes she isn’t alone.

“What--what is this?” he demands, staring, breathless and transfixed, at the show she has been putting on for herself.

He recognizes the two men despite their nudity--after all, they are two of the most distinguished individuals from their respective worlds. On the ground on his back, head turned to the side and eyes distant, is Prince Corrin of the World of Birthright, chains on his wrists and a mask of some dense, inflexible black material covering his mouth and chin, terminating in a steel collar cinched tight at his throat. Above him, kneeling between his outstretched legs, is Robin of the World of Awakening, wearing a collar as well but lacking the mask and restraints. His mouth is turned down in a frustrated grimace, one hand resting on Corrin’s abdomen, the other holding himself vulgarly. Alfonse has to look away, return his attention to Veronica, but her eyes are on them again.

“Can’t you just stick it in him?” she asks, gesturing crudely with her hands. “Aren’t you a man?”

“You’re… _despicable_ ,” Robin bites out, side-eyeing her with the utmost venom. “To do something like this to fellow humans is… And aside from that, what you're demanding is absolutely impossible in my state. There’s no way, in this situation, that I could possibly be…” He shakes his head. “Even if you attempt to force me by way of the contract, I promise you, nothing will come of it.”

Veronica sighs loudly. “Alfonse, show them how it’s done! Put that thing of yours inside that boy!”

Alfonse is cold, almost to the point of numbness, with anger and disgust and a shade of fear, though he tries to force the latter back as he addresses her. “Princess Veronica,” he says, struggling to maintain even a modicum of civility, “you may possess your heroes by magical contract, but you do not own me in that same way. I still have the capability of acting on my free will, and I would rather die than oblige you in that horrific request.”

Veronica stares at him for a long while, but he does not waver. “Then I suppose,” she says at last, ”that I will just have to have my army march down to Askr and show it a bloodbath for the ages.”

Alfonse clenches his fists but says nothing. She’s trying to bait him, he tells himself. She won’t break the contract for so little.

"And, you know, I think that your dear baby sister, little Princess Sharena, would make for a perfectly agreeable slave, don’t you?”

Alfonse jerks forward but stops himself just short of actually reaching her. “You--you leave my sister out of this!”

Veronica doesn’t appear afraid; in fact, she seems positively ecstatic. With a snap of her fingers, she has him on his knees, an unseen force bearing down on him from above, and it takes him all his strength to keep from fully prostrating himself before her.

“I think you forget that I am an accomplished mage, little prince." She reaches out to stroke his hair with the tips of her fingers. “So what did you mean to do? Attack me? Kill me? How droll.”

She crouches before him, cupping his face in her hands. “I don’t want your slut of a sister,” she whispers, nuzzling her cheek against his. “I want you, Alfonse. More than Bruno, more than any of these fools"--she gestures outward toward Robin and Corrin--"more than Askr, more than even Embla itself--I want _you_.”

Alfonse shivers as she presses her lips against his ear, slowly licks a trail along the outer edge. “I won’t make you do anything you don’t like,” she says, releasing him from both her hold and the magic binding him and standing up. “I don’t want you to hate me.”

He doesn’t bother telling her it’s far too late for that.

Shakily, he climbs to his feet. “I won’t comply with anything you demand unless you release them. They have nothing to do with this.” He can’t look at them. It feels like a violation if he does.

Veronica laughs. “I’m afraid you don’t have much of a say in that. What do you think they would do if I released them?” She approaches Robin, carding her fingers through his hair. “Kill me, perhaps. Take you away from me, certainly--they’re so terribly _noble_ that they would, you know.”

She kicks Robin in the side, knocking him to the floor with a grunt. Then she lifts her leg over Corrin and settles herself on his bare stomach, her gown spilling over him like black water. ”This one is especially dangerous--he killed his own family, were you aware? He isn’t even human, so I had to muzzle him.” She slides her hands up along the mask, and he twists his head to the side. “Naughty dragon-boy!” She swats him across the chest with her riding crop, and he whines, the sound muted by the mask.

“Please,” Alfonse begs, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Please, don’t hurt them anymore. If you’re angry with me, then punish me.”

Veronica’s eyes light up at that. “Oh, it's so _delightful_ to hear you ask!” She slips off Corrin and returns to him, reaching out to brush her fingers against his cheek. “Beg for me, then. Beg for your punishment, and I might be gentle with you.”

Alfonse licks his lips, staring at the ground with pinked cheeks. “P-please punish me, Princess,” he whispers, but her fingernails are quick to find his skin.

“Louder, now. With all the passion of one speaking to a cherished lover.”

Unwillingly, his mind leaps to Kiran, but he just as soon chases the thought away.

“Please punish me, Princess Veronica."

“And why do you need to be punished, Alfonse?” She passes her thumb between his lips and tugs at the corner of his mouth, forcing it into a lopsided grin.

“B-because,” he stammers around her intruding finger, struggling to come up with an answer that will satisfy her. “Because I’ve displeased you, Princess.”

Veronica draws back, releasing him from her grasp. “It seems your mouth isn’t always dreadfully unpleasant. You can also be so very amusing, Alfonse!”

He ducks his head because he can't stand to see the mirth in her eyes, but she clicks her tongue and pushes his chin back up with her hand. “None of that. I need you to strip for me now, and I won't have you do it with your eyes turned down like some meek servant! We're _beyond_ that stage, Alfonse.”

He blanches. “I must-- _strip_? No, I--I can’t do that, Your Majesty, I--”

"You can, and you will, _if_ you value where you have your limbs and other appendages at present." She saunters back to the footstool and plops down onto it, taking up her riding crop and stroking it lovingly across her lap.

"You won't dismember me, Princess," Alfonse says. "I'm quite certain you also value where my _appendages_ are at present."

"Hm. Then care to test your theory? A little finger or a toe surely won't be missed, no?"

Alfonse falls silent. Veronica smiles in triumph.

“Well, since I'm a very gracious mistress, I suppose I could do _something_ kind for you in return for your quiet cooperation. I don't have all day to whittle down your modesty, after all. So how about this: If you strip for me now like a good boy--that is, without resistance or complaint--then I will allow you to wear smallclothes and trousers from here out.” She leans back on her hands, smirking up at him. “I think that’s more than fair, don’t you?”

Nothing in this situation is fair, he thinks, when she's a ruthless despot and he’s a captive with no rights whatsoever. Further, he has no way of knowing whether or not she will make good on her promise or if she only means to manipulate him for the moment. It would not be unlike her to do so, after all.

And yet there’s a chance. If he refuses, she will simply strip him anyway _and_ have a reason to punish him. If the result will be the same either way, then he would prefer to at least have the possibility, no matter how small, of securing something for himself, as well as the scant dignity of undressing on his own. He doesn’t relish the thought of unnecessary pain, either.

“You swear on your honor as Embla’s imperial princess that you will stay true to your word?” he asks her anyway.

She chuckles. “I love seeing you get so serious with me! Yes, yes, I swear on my honor! Now, off with your gown--undergarments, too.”

In spite of his sudden resolve, Alfonse glances to the side at Robin and Corrin. Both are on their knees now, spared for the moment from Veronica’s wrath and trying their hardest to act as if they are paying no attention to the scene unfolding before them. Futile though it may be, Alfonse is touched by their efforts.

“Pretend as if they weren’t here,” Veronica says, following his eyes. “Your body is much lovelier than theirs, anyway. So soft, yet firm where it ought to be. And this--” He flinches back when she slips her hand between his legs, patting his groin. “You have such a cute little cock--it really makes me want to torture it!”

The way she talks about his body makes his cheeks burn and his stomach roil with indignance and repulsion. He says nothing, however; protesting will only further incite her sadistic passions. Instead, under the pretense of needing space to shed his clothing, he takes a few steps back so that he is no longer within her reach.

He hates how his heart speeds up as if he's doing something erotic when he forces himself to cross his arms over his front and grip the hem of his gown with both hands. It’s hard enough doing this in front of Veronica alone; it’s only with the knowledge that Robin and Corrin are also nude that he can even attempt to do this in front of them as well. He closes his eyes as he raises his arms, drawing the garment up and over his hips, his breast, and finally his head before tossing it to the floor. Mechanically, he undoes the strap of the breechcloth, then the belt around his waist, and drops it on top of the gown. He quietly exhales, then opens his eyes to find Veronica’s upon him. He doesn’t look down. Her reaction is enough.

“Look how _big_ it’s gotten! And red, too! My, how filthy you are!”

Alfonse curls his hands into fists. The throbbing in his privates has not abated, and her comments, detestable though they are, almost make him want to touch himself, despite the cord holding him in.

You weak-willed whore, Kiran whispers to him, and he swallows against the lump in his throat.

“I want to put my hands around it,” Veronica continues, “and wring it dry. I bet it’s so full up that it would squirt _everywhere_!” She says this last part with a giggle, rising from her seat, and Alfonse feels his heart beat even faster, the stinging pressure growing in his groin. He won’t be able to expel _anything_ tied up like this, he thinks, so if she teases him in this state, what might happen? Will he simply burst?

Veronica bounces on her heels in front of him. “Corrin,” she nearly sings. “Come. On your hands and knees, now, like a good dragon-boy.”

Corrin, by what can’t be anything other than the contract’s influence, scrambles toward them on all fours, chains rattling, palms and knees slapping against the marble. Alfonse is ashamed to find himself staring at the other man’s penis as it swings and shakes beneath him in the vulgar, oblivious way of beasts. It isn’t as if he can help his presentation.

Indeed, when he comes to a stop before them, Alfonse perceives a cold fire in his eyes, an admirable yet hopeless defiance.

“Straighten your back and lower your head!” Veronica snaps, grasping his hips and jerking them upward to level out the plane of his back. Corrin grunts but still says nothing; Alfonse isn’t even certain he can speak through his mask, or perhaps Veronica has simply prohibited him from doing so.

“Please wait,” he interjects then. “I’ll do as you ask, so please, don’t involve him in this.” He remembers what Felicia said to him yesterday; now the words burn on his tongue like hot ash. “I don’t want others to suffer on my account.”

Veronica looks amused. “Don’t you worry, my dear--they're here only as props for your grand show!” She stabs her pointer fingers into his nipples, and he only barely manages to bite his tongue. “Now take a seat on your royal throne, Your Highness.”

At first, he doesn’t comprehend her meaning. There’s no throne in the room; in fact, other than the footstool behind her, there is the no other place within reach where he can sit. Then he recognizes Prince Corrin’s position and how he himself was ordered into it just the other day, and understanding dawns on him as to the true meaning of the term “royal throne.” He shudders in disgust.

“No--I can’t do that,” he says, but before he can object further, Veronica whips her crop twice across the backs of Corrin’s legs, causing him to cry out.

“You don’t need to worry,” she says silkily. “See how he maintains posture even through the pain?” She hits him again, this time flipping the crop up against his stomach. He whimpers but remains upright, arms quivering. “He has the strength of a dragon. You need not be afraid of him dropping you like how you did with me.”

No--of course that isn’t the reason. He can’t stand to have others dragged into his wretched affairs. That is why he gave himself up--so that no one else would come to harm. But this--this isn’t how he expected it to go at all. He doesn't want to be complicit in this.

But if he isn't, then Corrin will be tortured.

“Take a seat,” Veronica repeats quietly, caressing Corrin’s backside with the crop.

Hating her, hating himself perhaps even more, Alfonse perches on Corrin’s back, light as a bird, supporting as much of his weight as he can in his own legs. Corrin scarcely acknowledges him, holding remarkably steady. His skin is warm and damp with sweat against Alfonse’s bare backside; the intimacy makes him blush.

“Good boy,” Veronica purrs, rubbing circles into his cheek with her thumb. Then she directs her attention behind him. “Robin, dear--won’t you come help me hold Prince Alfonse still? Restrain his arms--I won't have him struggling.”

Scarcely before Alfonse can react, he feels Robin’s heat against his back as his wrists are gripped and deftly maneuvered behind him.

“Forgive me." Robin's breath is hot against his ear.

“There is nothing for me to forgive,” Alfonse says, leveling a glare at Veronica. Her eyes, however, remain on Robin.

“Shut up,” she snaps, lashing him across the shoulder with the crop, so close that Alfonse hears its whistle as it flashes by. “That’s an order.”

Robin makes an involuntary, almost imperceptible noise of pain. Veronica either doesn’t catch it or doesn’t care enough to acknowledge it, to Alfonse’s relief. He has yet to be on the receiving end of her riding crop, but he’s certain she’s awaiting any excuse to employ it against him.

“What do you mean to do to me?” he asks, hoping that his passive compliance will take her focus off Robin and perhaps even lighten his own sentence.

“Oh, just a few things.”

She moves to the chest of drawers across the room and rummages through it, returning with a small, nondescript box that she leaves on the footstool. Alfonse finds his eyes lingering on it until she slaps his leg, drawing his attention back to her.

“Eyes on me, prince,” she says, kneeling down in front of him. “You’ll find out what’s in the box in due time, I assure you.”

He doesn’t relish the thought of that at all, but he has no occasion to think on it further; Veronica has started to touch him, fingers plucking at the inside of his left thigh, applying an uncomfortable pressure to his wound.

“Let’s get this off." She unwinds the bandage and then wrinkles her nose. “Oh. How unpleasant. It’s all crusted over.”

Alfonse grits his teeth. “What did you expect? Had you allowed the use of a staff--”

“Hmm,” she interrupts, tapping the spot with her pointer finger. “Let me fix it for you now, then.”

She closes her hand over the wound, and he cringes in anticipation, but all she does is rub it slowly, coasting her fingers over the puckered skin. Over time, she lengthens her strokes, moving her hand higher and higher until she nearly reaches the junction of his legs.

“No,” he gasps, trembling from the surge in sensations in so intimate an area. “Please, stop…”

Miraculously, she does. He nearly sighs in relief until a sudden, intense pain at the site of his wound forces all his breath from him. For a moment, he thinks she’s pulled back the scab to let him bleed. But when he looks down, he sees with a flood of revulsion and horror that she has stabbed a small dagger into his wound, almost up to the hilt. Blood seams around it and winds down his thigh and calf. He cries out, jerks back, but Robin, hands wet with perspiration, holds him fast.

“ _Ugh_..." he sobs. "T-take it out! Gods, have mercy! Oh, please, _please_ , it _hurts_!” Tears blur his vision, but still, he sees her smile, warped and indistinct.

“Oh, but it looks _much_ better now, yes? Cleaner. And so beautiful.” Her head is too close to his privates; again, he tries to pull back, and again, he’s restrained where he sits. Veronica flicks out her tongue and licks a long stripe up his leg and through the blood, tracing around the blade.

“You taste good, Alfonse,” she breathes against him, tickling the hairs on his leg. Then she sits back on her knees and, without warning, wrenches the dagger from his leg. The sensation is agonizing; he screams as the cold steel tears through the skin and meat of his thigh. Veronica lets the blade clatter to the floor.

“There is a med kit atop that chest of drawers,” she says to Robin, standing and brushing off her dress. “On my word, bring it here.” To Alfonse, she says, “As soon as he releases you, your hands are to lie flat on your legs. Do not move them, or I shall stab your palms and cut your wrists.”

He no longer has any doubt that she will, and so when she gives the word and Robin releases his hold on him to oblige her, Alfonse braces his hands against his thighs, fingers curling up and nails pricking skin. He can't stop shaking; the pain is staggering, on the precipice of unbearable. Blood pools from the wound now, running down Corrin’s side before hitting the ground in thick drops. Alfonse wants to apologize to him but doesn’t dare--for both their sakes.

When Robin returns with the med kit, Veronica orders him to treat the freshly opened wound, which he does with a tender efficiency that nevertheless leaves Alfonse groaning from the pain. It takes eight thick gauze pads pressed against the puncture site to finally stanch the bleeding. Robin finishes by wrapping a bandage snugly over a fresh pad and securing it all in place with a couple of pins. Then, upon Veronica’s orders, he returns to his post behind Alfonse and takes his wrists once again.

“Now then,” Veronica says, "shall we have some fun?"

To Alfonse's mortification, she lifts his penis into her hands, admiring it up close. “I can’t believe you’ve had this on for two days and haven’t died yet!”

She runs one hand down its length, pinching the tip between her thumb and forefinger when she reaches the end. Alfonse whimpers, sinking back against Robin, face flushed and groin throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Veronica grabs his testicles, suspended away from him by the cord, and begins to knead them between her fingers, wrenching from him a string of mortifying, mewling whines.

“Are your boy-parts very tender, Alfonse?” she asks him, tugging harder at his penis to further separate him from himself. “Might they fall off if I keep pulling?”

Somewhere in his delirium of pleasure and pain, he finds himself panting, “Please--I-I need to--please let me--” He stops himself there, his pride catching up to him. Why does he bother? She’ll keep him tortured and aroused for as long as it pleases her, and she simply loves to hear him beg.

But this time, she seems satisfied. “Oh, very well,” she sighs, as if his suffering were simply an inconvenience to her pleasure. She returns both hands to his base and begins to work them down his shaft, soft fingers tapping against his skin like raindrops. She doesn’t undo the cord, though, and the beginnings of panic, first a seed, then a sapling, take root. He needs a release, and the bindings won’t allow it--at least, he thinks they won’t.

But it only takes a few more moments before he experiences the familiar, dizzying sensation of climax. For half a second, he fears catching Veronica in his spray and the punishment that will unquestionably follow. But this time, there is no propulsion; his fluid emerges from his tip hot and fast, and yet in the restriction of his bonds, all it can do is spill out the top and dribble over Veronica’s hand, down Corrin’s side, and onto the floor where it joins with the blood. What little pleasure he managed to derive in anticipation of the act has slipped entirely out of reach, giving way to pain and a heightened sense of desperate, unsatisfied arousal.

His breaths have turned ragged, and his hands close and clench behind him. His feet left the ground at some point--he can’t remember when--and yet despite supporting all his weight, Corrin has scarcely wavered. He can't even spare a thought to feel guilty about that. His penis aches with both need and abuse. His body craves Veronica’s touch on him again, but his mind is repulsed, horrified, ashamed. What was _that_?

Veronica reaches out to touch him, and instinctively, he retreats as far from her as he can. She wipes her sullied hand on his mouth anyway, smearing his seed over his lips, his gums, his tongue. Stupefied, he allows her to. The taste is strong, utterly vile, and he gags, tears forming in the corners of his eyes before spilling onto his cheeks.

You look beautiful like that." Her tone is mocking, her cruelty thinly veiled. “Naked and utterly mastered--defiled by the essence of your own perversion. They ought to call you Alfonse the Whore-Prince of Askr, for what other epithet befits a wretched princeling willing to do anything for even the smallest sliver of pleasure?"

He lowers his head as more tears fall, unable, in his discomposure, to speak a word in his defense. He's so _ashamed_ , and it's almost a physical pain that manifests in his gut, a parasite that eats away at him from inside out.

“Ah, ah, don’t cry,” Veronica croons, scooping his face into her hands. But her wicked grin belies her her false sympathy. “Just accept it." She squishes his cheeks together, digging in with her nails and forcing a line of saliva to slip from between his lips and trail down his chin. “Accept that you’re a filthy, needy, useless little _slut_ who can't protect anyone."

"No," he whispers, but it's halfhearted, boneless. Of course he isn't doing this for pleasure, and yet her words strike far too close to his heart--filthy, needy, useless. Who has he managed to protect in this wretched state? Certainly not Robin and Corrin, whose suffering has only been amplified by his presence here. Not Felicia, who is as much a prisoner as he. His goal from the start has been to protect the people, _his_ people, and he _will_ \--is what he's been telling himself, over and over, and yet what has he to show for it all?

Nothing. He has nothing.

"' _No_ '?" Veronica repeats, releasing him. "Do you really think that's up for debate, fool? You are _worthless_. Pathetic. You're nothing more than a pretty doll for me to shape and play with as I please! So be a good toy"--she takes up her riding crop--"and _know your place_!"

Alfonse has only time enough to close his eyes before she lands a cutting blow across his chest, cleaving a hot line of skin from his left nipple down to his sternum and stripping him of his breath. He lurches, unconsciously, against Robin's restraining grip, going nowhere. Veronica raises her arm to strike him again, and again, he moves without thinking, this time kicking out, catching her in the knee and crumpling her to the floor like a porcelain doll herself. She shrieks in pain, and, poisoned by adrenaline, he gasps, "Don't touch me!"

He regrets the words even before they leave his mouth. Veronica's eyes smolder with fury. There's something almost primal in them, something hauntingly inhuman.

"Shut up," she hisses, and then, louder: "Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut _up_! Why don’t you just _shut up_?”

She scrambles gracelessly to her feet and swings out her palm, and it slams against his cheek, knocking his head to the side so fast it feels like whiplash.

"How _dare_ you talk back to me? How _dare_ you order me around?"

"Forgive me," he croaks, already knowing she is far beyond placating.

She slaps him again, this time on his other cheek, then back across the first. He chokes on what he thinks is only saliva until he spits a mouthful out and finds it sticky and red as it runs down his leg. Veronica pays it no mind and continues to hit him, right cheek, then left cheek, right, left, right. He can’t speak to beg her to stop, can hardly catch his breath at all. His ears are ringing, and his cheeks are smarting, and his head is heavy and unsteady, feeling like it’s been bashed several times against a stone wall.

By the time she finally stops, shaking and out of breath, his face is numb, tingling with what feels like thousands of tiny, blunted needles. It takes him several moments to regain his bearings, and once he does, he realizes Veronica has left him to once again search through her chest of drawers. She returns this time with two decorative silk handkerchiefs. Weakly, he lifts his head, only to have her pinch his nose, closing it off to air and forcing him to part his lips. The moment he does, she stuffs one of the handkerchiefs in, easily filling his mouth, then pulls the second over his lips, ordering Robin to tie it tight behind his head. Bunched up and soaked with saliva, the material soon becomes a thick and obstructing force, and Alfonse fights with his own reflexes to keep from gagging on it.

“I was right,” Veronica breathes, tipping his face up to meet hers. “You look much better like this.”

She leans forward, kissing his bound mouth. He remains as still as he’s able, trying to keep from panicking as he struggles to breathe through his nose. She releases him a moment later, sinking to her knees.

“Since you’re so misbehaved today, I suppose it’s time we finish up here,” she says, and he isn’t certain if he should be relieved or afraid. Afraid, he decides when she brings a hand to his chest, feeling his clammy skin. She splays her fingers across his right nipple, pinching and pulling it without any regard for his discomfort. The skin there is so sensitive that it soon erects itself into a little mound, much to her delight.

“You enjoy being touched like this, don't you, Alfonse?” She lowers her face to his chest before she can see him shake his head. “ _Disgusting_ boy.”

She takes his left nipple between her lips, pressing them hard together while she squeezes at his other side with her thumb and index finger. He throws his head back, colliding with Robin's chest. His gag muffles his scream only barely, and he can feel Veronica's lips twitch around him in what must be a satisfied smile.

She employs her teeth next, chewing, almost suckling him, as if she were nursing. All the while, her hand works him over, tugging and scratching and pressing not just at his nipple but at the area around it as well to the point where, when he finally manages to catch a glimpse of himself, he perceives a wound that looks as if it were left there by a beast, the skin red and inflamed and bisected by parallel slashes made by nails filed like claws. His voice hums low in his throat, a ceaseless but subdued moan punctuated by strangled gasps and sobs at each renewed sensation of pain; she’s loath to let him grow comfortable.

At last, she appears to tire and removes her mouth from him, then her hand. She regards his flushed face impassively.

“Does it hurt?” she asks him, and when he nods uneasily, she smiles. “Good. This is going to hurt _much_ more.”

For one deluded moment, he doubts her, really feeling, for the first time, the full ache of all his wounds, a pain that penetrates deeper than the skin. He realizes, finally, that he's helpless and without recourse to remedy it, an unwilling victim without a shred of agency. Methodically, Veronica has deprived him of his humanity, peeling him back layer by layer until he's left now without even a voice to speak up in his own defense. He managed to convince himself, in the aftermath of that fateful battle, that he would have some sway in Embla as a political prisoner of the highest order.

He understands now that he was a fool to think so.

Veronica reaches for the box on the footstool, and Alfonse snaps to attention again, anxiety singing like cold fire through his veins. She withdraws from the box foreboding silver forceps, a thin needle, and two thick, beautiful golden hoops linked together by an equally lavish golden chain.

“Do you know where these go?” She dangles the rings before his eyes, and even if he could answer her, he's too frightened to admit it even to himself.

“They go here." She smooths the thumb of her free hand across his swollen nipples, and he flinches away. “You see, we mark bulls with rings through their noses to show who they belong to--and to make them submit. Given your ofttimes nasty temperament, Alfonse, I thought to do the same to you. Now _everyone_  shall know who you answer to, and perhaps you shall finally understand your place here."

Her words awaken a frenzied, sickening flutter somewhere just below his stomach. The sensation is far from pleasant; the idea of being physically marked like livestock is as humiliating as it is disturbing, and he can hardly stand the thought of it, let alone the reality he's facing in short order.

Veronica doesn't dally. She sets the rings on Corrin's shoulder blade and picks up the forceps. Alfonse cringes when she touches the cool metal to his swollen skin, running it up and down as if she were dowsing for something. Then she opens the grip and captures his left nipple in it, stretching it out and away from him as she scrabbles for the needle with her free hand.

He whimpers his protests but doesn't dare move in his vulnerable position. Veronica ignores him anyway, leaning in close with the needle.

“Don't worry,” she tells him. “I've had plenty of practice.” Then she slides the needle through.

The immediate pinch of breaking skin makes him squirm, but it doesn't hurt nearly as much as he was expecting. Veronica is quick to remove the needle and slide the ring through, hanging one end of the small chain from it before clipping it shut. She dabs a bit of salve from the med kit onto it, swipes the needle clean with a piece of gauze, and then takes up his right nipple with the forceps.

“Ready?” she asks him cheerfully. He doesn't dignify her with a response, but she isn't waiting for one, anyway.

The second hurts far more than the first, perhaps on account of the ravaged state of that side of his chest. He sobs into the cloth, tries to twist away before she can insert the second ring, but Robin, predicting his reaction, holds him steady. Veronica halfheartedly cleans this one as well, seeming more eager to finally step back to admire her work.

“Beautiful!” she cries, sounding, disturbingly, as if she truly means it. “Now everyone will know you belong to me alone!”

He can't lift his eyes to meet hers; he's too ashamed. There's a bit of blood trailing from each of his nipples, which are now linked together by the chain, a distressing sight. Without warning, Veronica slips her finger beneath it and yanks on it. Alfonse jerks forward with the motion.

“Pay attention to me!”

He stares, really tries to do as she asks, but her face is swimming in and out of focus now. He regrets eating this morning; whatever he had must not be agreeing with him anymore, for his stomach is suddenly in knots. His face feels hot and feverish, too. It's getting harder to breathe just through his nose. He tries not to panic, but he needs his mouth unblocked, _now_.

He doesn't notice that he's falling until he feels Robin catch him. Everything goes dark after that, though, and then he doesn't notice much of anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out I’m slow and awful when I write smut. I’m so sorry! Thank you for your patience!
> 
> Next chapter will be drama with a side of smut. Poor boy can’t catch a break. Thank you all so very much for your continued support! Your comments warm my filthy cold heart! <3


	8. Conflicted Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which bathing is an icebreaker, Veronica pushes the limits of cruelty, and Alfonse learns Defiant Defense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ridiculously excited to announce that I've received an absolutely _stunning_ piece of fanart by the immensely talented Fluticasone!  <3 <3 <3 I mean, just look at it!
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> This made me feel actual guilt. Just look at Felicia's poor little bandaged face and her big, bright smile in spite of it! And the gentle way Alfonse reaches out to prop up her chin! Look at how broken they are! TT_TT It looks like a scene out of an anime! I simply can't express with words how much I love it! Thank you, thank you, thank you!
> 
> Make sure you all check it out in its original size on the lovely Fluticasone's [DeviantArt](http://jerseydevilsadvocate.deviantart.com/art/Forsake-me-683589430?ga_submit_new=10%3A1496184849) or [Tumblr](http://jerseydevilsassistant.tumblr.com/post/161256535049/i-hold-up-my-hands-i-stare-and-they-are-clean)! =) Now, without further ado, please enjoy the chapter!

Alfonse dreams of Zacharias again, but somehow, he can't seem to recall his face anymore. In the dream, it's featureless and indistinct. He feels a little guilty for not recognizing it, but it's been so long.

It isn't frightening this time, his dream, not like the last one, but it is surreal in an uncomfortable, exhausting sort of way. He's sitting beside Zacharias on the balcony of some tower, and they’re dangling their feet through the slots in the balustrade as they look out over the capital city's bustling market district. The sun's sinking beneath the hills on the horizon, and a chill wind has picked up.

“We ought to go in,” Alfonse says, not for the first time, but Zacharias won't.

“What do you think it would be like to jump from here?” he says instead, and Alfonse doesn't have an answer for him. He gets up suddenly then, and Alfonse thinks he's really going to do it, but he merely leans over the railing, spreading his arms like a bird.

“Don't do that, Zach,” Alfonse says, anxiously. “You'll die.”

But Zacharias only laughs. “You worry too much, Al.” He tousles his hair like he's a kid. “I'm gonna jump, then. Watch me.”

But Alfonse can't. He closes his eyes before Zacharias does it and doesn't hear a crash. He opens them again only moments later, but Zacharias is already gone, and no matter where he looks, both above and below, he can't find him anywhere.

He wakes after that, but for a long while, he's too scared to open his eyes. He can feel something cool pressed to his back and underneath him as well--marble tiling, maybe, and he must be sitting on the floor, against a wall. He isn’t alone, he realizes after a time; he can hear another walking to and fro, though they appear to pay him no mind. A great splashing of water startles him then, and his eyes snap open.

The room he finds himself within is small and contained, its walls and floor hewn from gray-brown marble with intricate, pearly veining. He determines it must be a bathroom, for its most prominent piece of furniture is a clawfoot washtub enameled with white porcelain. A slight young man carrying a large bucket retreats from the tub, and Alfonse feigns sleep as he passes. He hears the heavy door to the chamber drag open and then closed, and, curiously, he opens his eyes to find he’s been left entirely alone.

He tries to straighten himself, but a quick roll of his shoulders informs him that his hands are bound behind him; tugging at the restraints reveals them to be sturdy iron cuffs linked tight together. He’s entirely nude aside, his skin raised with goose pimples from the coolness of the marble. Reluctantly glancing down, he finds, to his dull surprise, that his privates have been released from the cord, though they remain red and sore from their imprisonment. More alarming, however, is the realization that all of his hair there has been meticulously removed. The sight is disturbing enough on its own, the thought that it was done during his unconsciousness even more so. He can't fathom a motive for doing such a thing except, perhaps, to further his debasement by stripping him of another aspect of his adult masculinity.

He lowers his chin to his breast to examine his nipples. The spots are erect and puffy with swelling, thin tracks of dried blood wending their way down over the glowing red welt left by the whip’s lash. The rings are set deep into the tissue and won’t easily come out should he resort to violence against himself to attempt it, though the very thought leaves him queasy. The chain connecting them taps against his chest with his slightest movements, and, unwillingly, he recalls Veronica’s words on subduing bulls with rings and grows hot with shame and disgust.

He tries shifting again, this time onto his knees so that he can ease the pressure off his sore backside, but the sudden spurt of raw pain in his leg makes him cringe. His freshly recreated wound has already bled through the bandages. If he moves about too much, he’ll succeed only in reopening it.

It’s while he’s considering this dilemma that the door opens again and the young man returns, his bucket replenished of water. “Ah,” he says, stopping in the doorway, “you’re awake.”

Startled, Alfonse falls back onto his bottom.

“N-no--d-don’t look!” he shrieks, curling into himself, trying to cover as much of his ravaged body as possible. “It--it’s disgusting!”

The young man immediately sets the bucket down and kowtows. “Forgive me, Your Highness,” he says in a shaky voice.

The shock of the moment soon passes, and Alfonse frowns, disappointed in himself for his unprovoked callousness. From his skittish and submissive demeanor, it's quite clear the boy is under Veronica’s thrall and thus very likely a contracted hero pressed into servitude against his will.

”Who are you?” Alfonse asks in far gentler a tone, though he continues to keep himself physically guarded.

“Gordin, sire,” the young man responds, speaking to the floor. “I’m just a humble archer serving in Prince Marth's forces.” He pauses. “At least, I _was_ until I and my liege and several of my fellow soldiers were seized by Princess Veronica and taken here.”

He sounds so depressed about it that Alfonse feels even guiltier for his outburst. “Please, lift your head,” he says, and warily, Gordin does. Round face, youthful aspect--yes, he recognizes him now. “Forgive me for speaking to you in that manner. I-I'm upset but not with you.” He leans further into his knees, feels the rings press into his thighs.

“No, not to worry, Your Highness,” Gordin says. “I understand. It was... difficult for me as well. Adjusting to life here hasn’t been easy for any of us, and I imagine that must hold exceptionally true for you, sire.”

Alfonse rests his cheek against his thigh, trying to keep his wandering mind firmly stationed in the present. “Yes,” he agrees, “it has been.”

Silence prevails for a long while until Gordin nervously pipes up, “Would that I could allow you your space and privacy, sire, but I’m forbidden by Her Majesty to leave you alone. I’m here to assist you in washing yourself, but if you would not have me touch you, then I will not. I’ve been instructed but not ordered to do as much.”

Alfonse finally raises his head. “No, it’s--it’s alright,” he sighs. “I would appreciate your help in that regard.” With his hands bound, he isn’t going to be cleaning himself any time soon, and it isn’t as if he has never been bathed by servants before. Aside from that, Gordin has been with him this entire time; he must already be privy to the state of his body and has thus far kept respectfully quiet about it. It isn’t a particularly relieving thought, but it makes it a little bit easier to lower his guard around him.

So he watches in mild anticipation as Gordin rises and sets the bucket beside the tub, then slowly nears him. “By your leave, sire, I'm going to lift you and help you to the washtub. I'm stronger than I look, so don't hesitate to lean on me as you need.”

Once Alfonse halfheartedly grants his permission, Gordin stoops, grips his underarms, and hoists him to his feet. He really is stronger than he looks, catching him whenever he stumbles with hardly a misstep of his own.

“Try to keep off your bad leg,” he says patiently, shifting to help Alfonse better distribute his weight. “I'll redress your wounds after your bath.”

“Thank you,” Alfonse mutters, rather embarrassed to have another man wait on him so completely when he is utterly helpless. But Gordin doesn't appear to look down upon him for it; in fact, he seems pleased to be of service in any way that he can, guiding Alfonse over the rim of the tub and carefully lowering him into the blessedly warm water within

“Is that comfortable for you, sire?” he asks once he has him settled, taking a seat on the stool beside the tub. Blushing faintly, Alfonse nods. “Then I’m going to use this cloth to clean your body, and--and if at any point you wish for me to stop, you need only say the word.”

Alfonse nods again, puzzled as to the origin of Gordin’s almost excessive tact but appreciative of it all the same.

It isn’t as discomfiting as he might have imagined, allowing a stranger to bathe him, and Alfonse soon finds himself beginning to relax. The water stings his wounds when Gordin unwraps them but otherwise soothes his aching body. Gordin is mindful and deliberate when he washes him, starting, Alfonse notes, in the safe territory of his shoulders.

“Forgive me if this isn’t my place, sire,” he says after a while, stopping himself there but sounding very much as if he wants to continue.

“Please, speak openly."

Still, Gordin hesitates. “W-well, it’s just that, earlier...” He trails off, pausing from where he's been washing Alfonse’s back. Alfonse waits for him to gather his words.

“You said that you were disgusting,” Gordin finishes at last. “But Your Highness--you must know that you’ve done nothing wrong--that none of this is your fault at all.”

That catches Alfonse off-guard. “Yes, I--” he starts before cutting himself off. He knows that. _Of course_ he knows that, and yet...

Gordin exhales, inaudibly, but Alfonse can feel it on the back of his neck. “You oughtn’t to feel as if you are to blame for what Her Majesty has done to you or what she has had you do. As long as you are under her power, you have no choice but to obey her. So you’re not unclean, sire, for enduring her tortures. In fact, I think you’re very brave and strong--and if I must be here, then I’m happy that my time is spent serving you rather than her.”

He resumes scrubbing, and Alfonse is left feeling a mixture of surprise and embarrassment, though not without a glow of tender warmth. This isn’t his fault--of course it isn’t. It seems so obvious and yet why had he never really considered it until now? He signed the contract under duress and with the expectation that he would be treated with some amount of dignity, and Veronica has consistently denied him it. Not only that, she has abused, demeaned, and manipulated him through her words and actions and shown no remorse whatever for her exercises in sadistic pleasure despite his best attempts at decency and compassion.

“Thank you,” he says after a while. “I… I needed to hear that.”

“As did I, at one point in my life, sire. So please, don’t lose heart. Your cause is noble, and so you have as much of my support as I am able to offer under the restrictions of my contract.”

“As long as you don’t endanger yourself in assisting me, then I will gladly accept it.”

Feeling considerably more at ease, Alfonse leans back, allowing Gordin access to his chest. He has to close his eyes as he feels the cloth against his abdomen, carefully cleaning the healing wound there before moving up to wipe the blood from the lash mark. He flinches when the cloth brushes just beneath his right nipple, but Gordin is cautious when he cleans around it, never touching the spot directly and avoiding the ring and chain almost entirely. He moves to the other one quickly enough, then down to his groin. Unlike the cleric, he handles him gently there, remaining silent throughout the process, and Alfonse mentally thanks him for it. Somehow, Gordin’s disinterest with the state of his body makes him feel much less filthy and degraded.

It’s when they’re finishing rinsing the soapy water from his hair with the clean water from the bucket that Veronica enters without so much as a knock on the door, Bruno trailing behind her and looking strangely morose.

“Oh, good! You’re almost finished!”

Alfonse jerks his hands against their restraints, instinctively moving to cover himself. Thankfully, Gordin has a towel at the ready, stretching it across his waist under the pretense of drying him.

“Princess,” Alfonse says frigidly once he regains his composure. “What do you want with me now?”

“Oh, don’t be vexed with me!” she says, tapping something rhythmically against her palm--the handle of her riding crop, he realizes with a fresh bout of dread. “I’m not here to play with you today. Rather, I’ve come to drop off a couple of gifts. I think you should like at least one of them.”

Alfonse doesn’t at all like the sound of that, but Veronica doesn’t wait for his response as she summons Bruno over and directs him to set a small wooden chest on the floor between them.

“As I promised, I’ve brought you some lovely new clothes. I think that they should suit your fancy just fine. But before I allow you to put them on, we have a few matters we must attend to.”

Gordin is only halfway through drying him when Veronica shoos him away, and Alfonse is forced to lean back against the washtub to support himself. He shrinks under Veronica’s gaze as she examines him, her eyes coming to rest on his chest.

“Wow! Your cute little nipples stand straight up now!” She flicks one, and Alfonse gasps, clenching his fingers behind his back. “They should heal quite nicely over the next month or so, I think. Oh, I can’t wait to play with them!”

The near-certainty of his remaining here a month, most likely more, is a sickening realization that momentarily steals his breath from him.

Veronica continues on anyway, addressing Gordin as she points to Alfonse’s leg. “It’s still bleeding, you fool! Go wrap it! Now!”

Gordin hastens to obey, fumbling with a roll of bandages left beside the washtub and then dropping to his knees before Alfonse to tend to the wound. It’s uncomfortable, having someone this close to his naked form, but for both their sakes, Alfonse says nothing.

With the bandages applied, Gordin stands and moves aside, head bowed low, as Veronica approaches to examine his handiwork. She makes no comment on it but, after studying Alfonse’s neck for a while, orders Bruno to release him from his restraints. Gratefully, Alfonse brings his arms to his front, moving to rub his sore wrists, but Veronica catches his hands before he can.

“You’re perfectly fine,” she determines after a moment, tossing them aside and folding her own arms over her breast. “They’ve healed quickly enough, and we mustn’t waste resources on such trivial things! But do tell--what is the cause of those ugly wounds on your knees? I was far too worked up to inquire about them earlier!”

Alfonse glances down at his scraped legs. “I fell and tore them up on the cobblestone the other day."

“It’s true,” Bruno chimes in. “The fool tripped in the garden and split his knees. Maddeningly, he can’t seem to go long without getting into some sort of trouble.”

Alfonse redirects his gaze, now a glare, toward Bruno while Veronica chortles.

“In any event, I grow weary of all this and wish to retire soon. But before that--Prince Alfonse’s first gift!” She whirls about, catching sight of Gordin. “You!” she barks. “ _Boy_! Hold him!”

Gordin shrinks back. “I-I can’t." But just as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he grabs at his chest, doubling over as if in pain.

“Are you disobeying me?” Veronica asks, sounding more amused than angry. She turns to Alfonse. “Do you see this, prince of Askr? This is the dark magic that binds my slaves to me. See how he foolishly tries to resist?” Even as she says it, Alfonse watches as Gordin begins taking heavy, unwilling steps toward him, still holding his chest, head bent forward. “How futile.”

“Gordin, stop!” Alfonse cries. “Do as she says! I know you don’t act under your own power!”

Gordin drags his head up, brow glinting with sweat. “Your Highness,” he pants. “I-I don’t want to. I don’t want to hurt you!”

“How unsightly,” Veronica snaps. She storms forward and grasps Gordin by the neck, drawing him in close. “What a willful, defiant boy you are. I won’t tolerate it!” She closes both hands around his throat, squeezing till he's left spluttering for air. “Would you care to spend some time in the dungeons? I think I would quite enjoy whipping that attitude right out of that frail little body of yours!” She gives him a quick, brutal shake that makes his head loll back, as if he were nothing more than a rag doll.

“Let him go!” Alfonse demands, starting forward on his good leg. “Please, we’ll both comply, just let him go!”

Veronica does, thrusting him to the floor. “Resisting is for lords and princes--not mangy little street-rats like you!” She delivers a kick to his chest, and he curls inward, coughing and clutching at his throat with one hand and his chest with the other. “Now beg for my forgiveness. On your knees.”

Weakly, Gordin crawls onto his hands and knees and bows his head low. “Please forgive me, milady.”

She lashes out with her riding crop, striking him on the backside. He lets out a squeak before hastily pressing his fist to his mouth to silence himself.

“Cretin,” she sniffs, lifting her foot and bringing it down on his head, forcing it to the ground. “You’re not even fit to grovel at my feet!” She kneads her heel into his scalp, eliciting from him a soft whimper. “Alfonse,” she says, finally glancing up, “come here.”

Alfonse gives a start, dragging his attention away from the cowering Gordin. “Yes, Princess?” Tentatively, he limps closer, fearing an incident like that which occurred with Prince Corrin should he disobey. To his surprise, then horror, Veronica holds out her riding crop, the handle facing him.

“Take it,” she orders.

He doesn't move. “I-I can't...”

Her lower lip twitches. “Was that a request?”

“N-no, Princess...”

“Then take it.” She proffers the item again. Hesitantly, he reaches out, closes his fingers around the handle. It isn't heavy in the slightest, but the unspoken burden it forces upon him is immeasurable.

Veronica lifts her foot from Gordin’s head and kicks him onto his side, then his back. He stays silent as she crouches down and manhandles him into the position she wants with his legs drawn out and his wrists pinned above his head beneath her hand.

“He didn’t seem to mind it much when I whipped him,” she says once she's satisfied with his arrangement, “so I have a better idea on how he ought to be punished.” She draws up his tunic with her free hand, bunching it under his arms and exposing his pale, slender torso.

“No,” Alfonse says, dry-mouthed. “Please, no--don’t make me--”

He’s interrupted by Gordin’s stifled cry as Veronica reaches down and plucks his right nipple between her thumb and forefinger.

“Should I do the same to him as I did to you?” Almost absentmindedly, she pinches and jerks at the spot while Gordin valiantly endeavors to keep his lips pressed shut. “His are so tiny, though--I might end up tearing them out on accident!”

“Please,” Alfonse begs, his voice breaking, “what must I do to get you to discontinue this needless torture? Is it not me you wish to punish?”

“It is not,” Veronica responds candidly, to Alfonse's great surprise. “It is this detestable little cur that requires punishment today, not you--for once. However"--she lowers her voice, sounding suddenly coquettish--"I need you to mete out his punishment, Alfonse. I am only a frail woman, as you can plainly see, and so I cannot adequately administer to this wretch the punishment he rightly deserves.”

Her performance with the crop yesterday belies her assertions now, Alfonse bitterly thinks, and she well knows it.

“I am also weak in the wrist,” he tells her, presenting both of his cut and abraded wrists again for her examination, “since you deem it necessary to near-constantly keep me in some restrictive form of bondage. I can't help you with this.”

He prays that might make her reconsider or at least direct her ire toward him instead, but she merely sighs. “Such a foolish boy you are. I’d hoped you hadn’t forgotten the consequences of your defiance so soon. Now this poor child has to suffer even more.”

She releases her hold on Gordin’s chest with a final cruel tug, then slips her hand down to his crotch. She roughly gropes between his legs for a moment before giving him a hearty smack there. He shudders, his face red and glinting with sweat.

“Already hard and probably wet, too. Pathetic. Simply vile.”

“Enough!” Alfonse cries, but she pays him no heed.

“What would you like?” she murmurs into Gordin’s ear. “Would you like to play with me some more? Or would you like for dear, virtuous Prince Alfonse to whip you raw?”

Gordin responds too quietly for Alfonse to hear, but his answer causes Veronica to erupt into a fit of laughter. “Go on, then!” she cries. “Tell him! Tell him exactly what you want!”

Gordin turns his eyes up, lips quivering. “Please whip me, sire."

Alfonse bites his own lip. “No, I--I _can’t_! Please, Princess,” he applies to Veronica, “don’t make me do this! I’m _begging_ you!”

She clicks her tongue. “You heard the boy say it himself! He wants you to whip him! Come now, only, let’s say, ten lashes. No--five. I’m feeling merciful today.”

“But--”

“My patience is wearing thin,” she interrupts, eyes narrowing dangerously. “If you do not do as I command, then I will drag this boy down to the dungeons and have him tortured within an inch of his life! And I’ll ensure _you_ have a front-row seat to the show, Alfonse!”

“Your Highness--please!” Gordin cries before Alfonse can respond. “Please--whip me! I-I don’t mind, and I don’t blame you!”

“Shut up, you!” Veronica growls, clapping a hand over his mouth. “Do you enjoy pain? Hmm?”

“A-alright,” Alfonse relents, before Veronica can do any more harm. He feels faint with nausea, struggling to keep himself upright. “Princess Veronica, leave him alone. I-I’ll do it.”

A grotesque grin stretches across her face. “Now that’s a good boy,” she purrs.

Alfonse ignores her. He stares at the soft, unblemished expanse of Gordin’s skin. No--mostly unblemished. There’s a scar, white and nearly invisible against the pallor of his flesh, stretched from his sternum all the way across to the right side of his abdomen. A battle scar, most likely, but a curious one for an archer, Alfonse thinks. Something doesn’t seem quite right about it. He’ll avoid that area if he can at all help it.

He breathes in, then out, trying hopelessly to prepare himself. Struck by a sudden idea, he passes the crop into his left hand. “I-I’m going to start now,” he says. Gordin remains silent, and Veronica raises no objection. Alfonse exhales quietly in relief; she hasn’t noticed.

“Five lashes,” she reminds him. “As hard as you can.”

He nods, swallows. Then he flicks back his wrist and releases.

Gordin doesn’t make a sound, but the crop meeting flesh does. Alfonse flinches. Even in his left hand, that felt far too powerful--has he underestimated his own strength? A red flush creases Gordin’s chest, but there seems to be no mark there--yet.

“Prince Alfonse!” Veronica chastises. “Surely you can do better than that!”

“I told you that my wrist is weak!” He wants this to be done. He wants to get it over with. Partially in anger at Veronica, he draws back his arm and whips Gordin again. This time, he elicits from him a scream that sobers him at once.

 _No_ \--he wants this to be over with but not at Gordin’s expense.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, his hands shaking, bile rising in his throat. “Oh, gods, I-I’m so sorry!”

Veronica giggles. “Now that’s the way, Alfonse! Come now, only three more!”

He can’t stop shaking. Weakly, he flips the crop down across Gordin’s stomach. The noise is small, and Gordin stays quiet.

“Tsk, that won’t do! I won’t accept it. Give him another!”

“Please,” Alfonse nearly sobs. “I can’t do this! Please, let me stop!”

Veronica’s face hardens. “Pathetic. What a pathetic man you are, Prince Alfonse! It’s no wonder your kingdom is so weak with you at the helm! I suppose you fancy yourself some sort of hero?”

That takes him unawares. “No,” he says, “that isn’t--”

“Oh, but it is! Prince Alfonse the Noble! Prince Alfonse the Kind! Tell me, do you believe that kindness will feed a kingdom? That it will help your people prosper? You’re so terribly absorbed in your own heroics, you know, that you can’t see the truth right in front of you! You’re a weak prince who’s blinded by his own self-righteousness!”

Alfonse recoils. “I-- _no_ \--that isn’t true,” he says, lamely. “I’m not--that isn’t--”

But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to find the words to defend himself. His mind has gone utterly blank.

“I don’t care to hear your pitiful defense,” Veronica says. “As I told you before, I wish to retire to my chambers in short order. Do not try my patience today, prince. Now continue. Three more lashes. Do them all at once if you’re so desperate to get it over with!”

Without pausing to think about it first, Alfonse does, whipping Gordin three times in succession across the chest. The servant cries out with each one but falls mercifully quiet save for the labors of his breathing once the blows have been delivered. Alfonse lets the crop slip from his hand and covers his face.

“Get up,” he hears Veronica snap at Gordin. “Go hold his arms like I ordered before!”

He hears Gordin grunt in pain as he scrambles to obey, then feels his hands on his forearms, gently pulling. He allows them to be drawn behind his back as he’s guided onto the stool by the washtub. Veronica crouches before the wooden chest and retrieves something from it.

“I ought to have done this from the start. Perhaps then you would have learned your place.”

She holds out the item. It looks at first to be an oversized gold shackle, but Alfonse quickly recognizes it as a collar much like those worn by Robin and Corrin. He flinches as Veronica brings it forward, fits it around his neck.

“It suits you,” she whispers to him, softly kissing, then nibbling his ear.

She locks the collar in place with a small golden padlock that hangs down from the front like a tag. Beside it dangles a length of chain which she moves to affix to the one linking his nipples. Then she draws back to admire her work. Somehow, he manages to keep his head high and his eyes steady on hers.

“Doesn’t he look positively lovely now, Bruno?” she exclaims, clapping her hands together, but that man seems disinterested in responding, staring off into a corner of the room without even acknowledging her. “Oh, and one more thing before you dress,” she goes on anyway, apparently unconcerned.

Again, she crouches before the wooden chest, lifting another object out of it. Alfonse cranes his neck to see. The item is reasonably small for what it appears to be, fitting neatly across the span of her palm. It looks like a cylindrical cage of some sort with an adjustable tube piercing straight through its center, but as to its purpose, Alfonse can only guess. Its appearance is ominous enough, however, and he retreats backward somewhat when Veronica stands with it.

“What is that?” he demands, shuddering as she brings the contraption closer to him. She hands it off to Bruno, who moves to the vanity at the other end of the room, selecting a jar filled with some kind of balm and unscrewing the lid.

“Don’t fret so much,” Veronica says. “Have I not already told you that I am the governess of your pleasure? Your boy-parts shall be kept under lock and key any time they are not in the service of my amusement.”

Alfonse feels a bulb of cold fear blossom within his stomach. “Wh- _what_?”

He didn’t think anything could be worse than the constant bite of the cord. Now she means to place this device on him? He fidgets in his seat, eyeing the thing as Bruno takes the balm and rubs it thoroughly down the center tube. He can’t imagine where that is meant to go. It’s only when Bruno kneels before him and begins to position it that realization dawns on him.

“That--that can’t be going… inside of me... _right_?” he asks breathlessly as Bruno roughly takes hold of his penis, threading his privates through the ring at the base of the device.

“Hmm?” Veronica says, clearly engrossed in observing the proceedings. “Well, of course it is! Where else would it go? Ah, but worry not--it’ll go in quite easily now that Bruno has slicked it up for you. You can still piss with it in, too, if that’s what concerns you--that’s what this little hole here is for, see?”

She shows him, but it isn't relieving in the least. Bruno maneuvers the tube toward his tip, and he squirms against Gordin's hold on him.

“If you struggle,” Veronica warns, “you'll only make it worse.”

So he stops moving, closing his eyes instead, though he can feel right away when the tube breaches him. He jerks back without meaning to, inadvertently thrusting the tube deeper into himself. He whimpers. The feeling is almost surreal--not painful, precisely, but certainly with the potential to be. Mostly, it's a filling sensation, as if he's being stuffed up with something. He can feel himself quiver around the tube; it almost makes him panic, and he cries out again.

“Hush,” Veronica snaps. “It's almost in.”

He can feel the bars of the cage around him now, pressing his penis from all sides and leaving it little room to move about. The feeling of confinement in that intimate spot frightens him, and he has to force himself to stay still.

It's only when he hears the click of a lock and feels Bruno move away from him that he dares to open his eyes, and though he orders himself not to look, curiosity bids him to anyway.

The cage sits heavy between his legs, tugging down on his penis without Bruno there to support it. The device makes his genitals look entirely alien to him, and the pressure it applies to them is impossible to ignore. He feels his cheeks warm with embarrassment, though he can't entirely name the reason for it. There’s simply something distressingly dehumanizing about having his privates caged and held under the princess's thrall.

“How does it feel?” Veronica prompts him, smiling wickedly.

In a small act of defiance, he turns his head to the side. “I hate it.”

“Good. You weren't meant to enjoy it.”

She straightens up then, stretching her arms above her head. “Oh, I’m so tired!” she complains. “You’ve kept me so long with your games, Alfonse!” She glances over his shoulder at Gordin. “Release him.” Gordin does at once, and Alfonse has to consciously resist the urge to pull at the thing between his legs. “Get dressed with the clothes in there"--Veronica points to the wooden chest--“and Bruno will escort you back to your room. As for me, _I_ am going straight to bed!”

She exits the room grumbling under her breath, and for the first time since his bath, Alfonse can relax his shoulders, if only a little. Shakily, he gets to his feet, waddling toward the chest while supporting himself with one hand. In spite of all the balm, the cage chafes a little, and he understands now exactly _why_ he was stripped of his hair. He can’t imagine _that_ catching between the bars.

He’s relieved to discover that Veronica has held to her promise and left him with appropriate attire. He pulls on a pair of loose silk drawers that, despite their comfort, do little to support the new weight between his legs. After come the trousers and tunic, both of the same off-white silk and trimmed with gold. He feels a little better in knowing that now, only his collar and the chain trailing down from it are immediately visible; so long as he’s careful when he walks, none of the servants or guards will be apprised of the shameful ornaments he bears beneath his clothes.

Once he’s dressed, he turns to speak to Gordin--to say something, _anything_ with the hope of conveying even a sliver of his sincerest remorse--but Bruno is there at once to take him by the shoulder and direct him toward the exit.

“Wait!” Alfonse objects as he’s hurried through the door. “I need to speak with him--please!”

Bruno ignores him, virtually dragging him down a flight of stairs to his all-too familiar hallway and back to his prison. Alfonse is thrust into his cell without so much as a word of acknowledgement, and Bruno leaves before he can even speak a full sentence to him.

Dizzily, he sits down on his stool, but, feeling the unpleasant sensation of his cage pressing against the solid wood, he moves to his bed instead. He lies on his back so as not to agitate his nipples or the cage. Exhausted though he is, however, he can already determine that he will not be sleeping tonight.

He takes a pillow from beside him and smothers his face in it, trying to imagine that he’s somewhere else, that he’s anywhere but here. A week ago, it would have been a simple feat to dismiss Veronica’s words as mere provocations, but now that he has fallen this low, that he has committed veritable acts of torture, he cannot deny that perhaps there is some truth to them after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a thing for cute boys cutely bathing each other. And Gordin is one of my fav OG Fire Emblem characters, so I had to include him. He has some rather nasty skeletons in his closet that we'll be unearthing eventually. ;)
> 
> Thank you all for your patience and support, as always! You really do encourage me to keep doing my best! <3 Next chapter will bring tooth-rotting fluff followed by heartbreaking whump, so... look forward to it? :)
> 
> Special thanks again to the marvelous Fluticasone for the absolutely breathtaking art! I really don't think I can thank you enough! <3


	9. Wayward Maid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get sweet for Alfonse in more ways than one and Veronica gets playful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or: Beautiful Cinnamon Rolls Too Good for This World, Too Pure
> 
> Ugh, sorry, I really meant to have this out ages ago but Tempest Trials and extra summer hours at work consumed my life to a not-quite-justifiable degree. I swear, this chapter feels longer than normal even though it really isn't. (But I hope you enjoy it all the same!)

Time passes agonizingly slowly. Alfonse lies still on his back, one arm slung over his eyes to block out the light that’s long since gone away with the sun. Exhausted though he is, he can’t sleep. He’s weak with hunger, but nobody arrives to bring him his evening meal, or even to light a candle for him to read by. It must be Veronica’s next attempt at punishing him, but he worries about Felicia all the same.

His stomach twists into knots when he thinks about Gordin, though. Is he being punished? Every time the thought comes to mind, Alfonse squeezes the bedclothes between his fingers until they cramp from the effort. He can’t stand it, making another suffer on his account. If Gordin hadn’t refused to submit, had simply obeyed the order he was given, then Veronica would have had no occasion to punish him. It was only out of the purest desire to protect that he ended up tortured, and it was Alfonse himself who rewarded that selflessness with cruelty.

He lifts a pillow from beside him and smothers his face in it. Maybe, he thinks morbidly, he’ll stop breathing. It would be just as well, too--a death befitting a filthy traitor to his own lofty ideals. Veronica was right--he’s no hero, and his people are right to despise him.

And yet, like a coward, he grows anxious from the thought, and he bolts upright, then cringes. The pain in his leg is enough to leave him breathless. He leans forward to check that his bandages are dry, but the pressure on the cage between his legs renders him suddenly hot and aroused. He moans softly as he slips a hand beneath the waistband of his trousers and paws at his ensnared genitals, trying to alleviate at least some of the discomfort. The bars keep his grasping fingers at bay, however, and all he really ends up doing is jostling the tube stuck up inside him, causing him to cry out and jerk his hand away from himself.

He flops back onto his mattress with tears in his eyes and his penis still blazing with sensations, both pleasant and unpleasant alike in some confounding dance of passions. Shame is his only constant--shame at his condition, at his lack of self-control, at his untempered perversion. The epithet “whore-prince” sticks in his head. He can’t even deny it now. If he was ever noble and virtuous, then within these past few days, he has been so far degraded as to be as foreign to such concepts as a common lowlife. Kiran deserves a better prince to serve than the likes of him.

The night drags on around him, and still, he doesn’t sleep. Though his eyelids droop and he fades out of consciousness for intervals, he always finds himself back to staring blankly up at his canopy, unable to capture any sort of comfort. His leg hurts, and his chest hurts, and he can’t move for fear of disturbing the cage again. The moment he perceives the sun beginning its daily ascent, he relinquishes all hopes of sleeping entirely and resigns himself to a day of exhaustion. Perhaps it’s for the best and he’ll pass out early on in the next torture session Veronica surely has planned for him.

He comes out of his sleepless trance at the sound of someone unbolting his door. He contemplates sitting up but inevitably decides against it. If it’s Bruno or someone else here to torment him, he’ll take his chances with feigning sleep.

But the footsteps that follow the creaking of his door are light, if not rather clumsy, and Alfonse reluctantly lifts his head and spies Felicia there, bearing a covered serving platter on her unsteady palm.

“Oh!” she says when she perceives him watching her, hastening to resettle the platter with both hands before she can drop it. “I hope I didn’t wake you, Your Highness.”

“Don’t worry.” He allows his head to sink back into his pillows. “You didn’t.”

“You don’t look well.” He can hear her bustling about, setting the platter down and lighting a fire in the grate. His cell door groans as she eases it open. He turns his head. For a moment, she hovers over him uncertainly. “M-may I sit?” she says at last.

He gives his consent, and she pulls up the stool from his desk and seats herself primly atop it, hands clasped together in her lap. His eyes fall to her bandages. “How is your face?”

She jumps a little. “Eh? O-oh, it’s fine--just fine, Your Highness! It’s getting better every day!”

He doesn’t know that he entirely believes her, but he’s too afraid to press the issue. For a while, neither of them says a thing. He can feel her eyes on him, on his neck, but he can’t meet them. She’s waiting for an explanation, probably, but it’s one he simply can’t give to her, not now.

He doesn’t notice her hand, reaching for him almost dreamlike, until her fingers brush against the gold collar cinched tight at his throat. Instantly, he recoils, scrambling across his bed as if her touch had burned. She leaps back herself, nearly knocking over the stool.

“B-begging your pardon! I d-don’t know what came over me!” She hangs her head, twisting the hem of her dress between trembling fingers. “Oh, look what I’ve done now! Please, f-forgive me, Your Highness!”

Alfonse gathers himself into an upright fetal position, his blankets a tangled mess around him. “It--it’s shameful, isn’t it?” He touches his hand to the collar, curling his fingers into a fist. “I’m... I'm her _pet_ now. Her pet. An animal...”

Saying it out loud very nearly chokes him up, but he laughs instead, hoping to mask it. Less than human--that’s what he is. In a strange, depraved way, it’s a bit of a comfort. At least now he knows for sure.

He feels Felicia’s hand on his knee, very lightly, as if it’s ready to flee at any moment should it receive some signal from him to do so. He lifts his head. She’s looking somber yet kind, almost heartbreakingly so. How did someone so gentle end up the slave to a sadistic despot? And yet when she speaks, it’s with a strength and conviction that catch him thoroughly off his guard.

“If you are an animal, milord, then I am but the flea that clings to your noble mane. Perhaps I am unsightly and insignificant, but I choose to remain here with you, no matter how many times you may try to throw me off.” She smiles. “So come what may, I will stay by your side, Your Highness.”

In spite of himself, Alfonse blushes. “Felicia…”

He lifts his hand and, after a short pause, places it over hers. Her skin is warm and smooth. “You’re not like a flea. You’re much more akin to--to a guardian angel.”

Now it’s her turn to blush, which only exacerbates his. “That’s very kind of you to say so, Your Highness!” He can feel her hand growing clammy beneath his, so he releases it.

“I mean it, truly,” he says. “I think--without you--I might have fallen into despair already. In fact, I think I was very nearly there just now.”

“I just wish I could help you more, Your Highness...”

“No--this is enough. You’ve given me hope and reminded me of who I am.” He unfolds himself, sliding his legs out and over the edge of his mattress. “I’m Prince Alfonse of the great and noble Askran Kingdom. And nobody--not even Princess Veronica--can ever take that away from me.”

Felicia brightens. “That’s the spirit, Your Highness! And--and I promise to take care of you to the best of my ability--and then some! S-so you can rely on me, okay?”

“Yes, of course. I--well-- _thank you_ , Felicia.”

In his rather giddy state, he moves to stand, to take her hand, maybe, or even to hug her, if it isn’t too terribly out of line, but just as soon as he’s up, his leg throbs, then buckles, and the full weight of the cage jerks down on his privates, leaving him gasping and clutching indecently at his crotch.

“Milord? Are you alright?”

He lets go of himself almost immediately, and Felicia acts as if she hasn’t seen anything as she helps him back into his bed, tucking the blankets around him in motherly fashion, though perhaps she is only maintaining decorum. It’s nauseating not knowing what she saw if, in fact, she saw anything. After her display of selfless loyalty, how might she react upon discovering him to be a most vile and depraved lecher? He tries to attribute to the influence of the cage his sudden torturous arousal, though he can’t but feel some degree of shame and disgust at what must, on some level, indicate his own lack of restraint. His penis engorges and strains against the bars of its imprisonment, a sensation that’s uniquely painful and terrifying. He breathes deeply and slowly as Felicia brings him his breakfast of eggs and hash, but she looks concerned all the same.

“Ought I to fetch you some ginger root, Your Highness?” she asks him anxiously, peering into his eyes. “It helps to ease an upset stomach.”

Alfonse exhales a measured stream of air. He's saved, this time, by her misconception that he was gabbing his stomach.

“No, it’s alright,” he assures her. “It was a moment of weakness, but it has already passed.”

She nods her understanding. “Please don’t hesitate to tell me if you need something. I really do want to help.”

His penis has started to deflate, to his tremendous relief. He inches into a sitting position against the backboard, wary of the cage, and endeavors to focus on the meal before him rather than what’s going on in his lower region.

“I suppose there is one thing,” he says after a pause, reluctant to instruct her to do anything that might land her in trouble.

But she looks more than eager to acquiesce. “Yes?”

Alfonse picks up his fork, cuts around the white of an egg. “I had the pleasure of meeting another servant who works here--a summoned hero, like you. His name is Gordin, and yesterday, I did something... unforgivable to him.” He stabs into the yolk much more violently than he intends to. “He ended up in trouble because of me, and I haven’t seen him since. I’m worried about him, and I want to apologize, but since I’m just a prisoner here, I can’t exactly roam freely about the castle.” He looks up and meets her eyes, already burning with determination.

“I’ll find him,” she says. “I’ll ask around the kitchen and gardens and servants’ quarters--surely someone has seen him there.”

“I hate to ask this of you..."

“No, I’m more than happy to oblige, Your Highness.” She straightens, turns to leave. “I’ll be back for your dishes in an hour. Expect the good news by then!”

But in spite of her promise, the good news doesn’t come within the hour, or by dinner that night, or, to both of their near-palpable disappointment, in the next few days that follow. To Alfonse's great surprise, Veronica also remains unaccounted for, though her absence is decidedly less concerning. Even Bruno keeps his distance, leaving him in the sole care of Felicia, an arrangement that is not at all unpleasant to either party involved. Alfonse passes the better part of the week in bed, napping or reading or drawing or simply lost in thought but determined to stay off his wounded leg which, in turn, keeps his cage largely out of awareness. He dreads those times where nature compels him to confront it; he must sit with his fist firm between his legs in order to successfully use the chamber pot. His first few times, he bleeds when he goes, and the burning there is enough to make his teeth clench and his eyes water. Then there's the state of his breast; his nipples have gone red and puffy and sting if they so much as brush against the fabric of his tunic, yet another reason to keep him confined to his bed.

Midway through the week, Bruno arrives to convey him from his cell to the bathroom where he instructs him to bathe, all the while pointedly refusing to acknowledge any of Alfonse’s desperate inquiries into Gordin's wellbeing. He doesn’t leave the room or even turn away to provide some degree of privacy, forcing Alfonse to strip before him, a humiliating affair that he hurries through as quickly as he can. Before he can enter the washtub, however, Bruno catches him by the arm, whirls him around, and lifts his caged privates.

“Has there been any pain or discomfort?” he asks.

“Of course it’s uncomfortable!” Alfonse growls. “It”--he dodges his captor's eyes--“it hurt whenever I had to... When I had to make water, at first.”

“Was there any blood in it?” Bruno looks thoughtful rather than horrified, a notion that rather horrifies Alfonse.

“A-a little."

Without a word, Bruno pushes him down onto the stool before the washtub and produces a small silver key from within the folds of his cloak. With it, he unlocks the device and begins to remove it, but a sudden sharp pain causes Alfonse to cry out, stay his hand.

“Stop! That  _hurts_!” He tries to fight Bruno’s hand away with both of his.

“I need to clean it,” is the terse response, “and I can’t do that while you’re still wearing it. Or would you rather remain in it for the rest of your life?”

“No,” Alfonse sobs. “No, no, no, please, not that, please!” He knows he’s all but blubbering now, but the raw burn in his privates is almost unbearable. He clings to Bruno’s hand as that man steadily pulls the cage off him, drawing out the tube from within him at an agonizing pace. When at last the insertion pops free, Alfonse looks down against his better judgment and feels weak with nausea to find spots of crimson against stark skin.

Bruno doesn’t appear to care, ordering him into the tub while he moves to a washbasin to clean the torturous device. Alfonse weeps quietly while he scrubs himself raw, no longer caring how he appears before Bruno. The warm water stings his penis, which feels obscenely stretched and opened, as if it's been hollowed out. He tries not to watch Bruno as he slicks the device up again with the ointment from the jar.

He cries and holds to Bruno’s neck like a child when the device is reapplied. No amount of begging spares him from the excruciating sensation of the tube going back up inside him, and once he’s locked in again, he's given a change of clothes and taken back to his room without so much as a word of comfort.

By the end of the week, he's all but given up on Felicia's reconnaissance mission, and his fear of being summoned by Veronica gradually begins to mount again. He wakes one morning to the sound of someone speaking, and instinctively, his stomach clenches. A moment later, he recognizes Felicia’s voice.

“I have a surprise for you, milord--two, in fact! Please wake up!”

The word “surprise” has come to take on the most negative of its meanings for him, and yet in spite of that, the gentle cadence of Felicia’s voice makes him open his eyes.

The cell door is already flung wide, and she’s standing a few feet from his bed, bouncing on her heels. And beside her, hands clasped behind his back, is–

“Gordin,” Alfonse breathes. “Thank the gods--you’re alright!”

“Yes, sire!” he says cheerfully. “I hope I didn’t worry you too much?”

“O-of course you did!” Alfonse throws back his covers and swings his legs over the side of the bed, but he feels too weak to stand. “I’ve been sick with worry!” He looks him over frantically. “Are you injured anywhere? That wound I gave you--how is it? You haven’t been tortured, have you?”

“Be at ease, Your Highness. I’m alright--nary a scratch on me.” Gordin lays his hand over his chest. “You scarcely wounded me--I only put on a show to deceive Princess Veronica, much like how you used your left hand to whip me.” He smiles. “There’s only a small mark left there, and I have no doubt it will heal in due time.”

“Thank the gods,” Alfonse says again. “But then where have you been all this week? I’m not surprised you weren’t permitted to visit me, but even Felicia could not ascertain your whereabouts.”

"Ah--I've been locked up in the dungeons until this morning, when Sir Bruno freed me. Forgive me, sire--had I the means, I would have relayed my condition to you. I never meant to make you worry on my account.”

“It’s true, Your Highness!” Felicia pipes up. “I found him this morning coming up from the dungeons with Sir Bruno. As soon as he cleaned up, I brought him straight to you, and now, well, here we all are!”

“But I’m not injured,” Gordin insists. “I was fed regulay and mostly left alone. I think Her Majesty, who ordered my confinement, forgot about me after a few days. That’s why Sir Bruno had to come release me.”

“I’m just glad you’re alright,” Alfonse sighs. “Please, Gordin, don’t do what you did back then again. I don’t want you risking your life on my behalf. You either, Felicia.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” they say in unison.

“But I don’t regret it,”'Gordin adds.

“Nor should I,” Felicia contends.

“I mean it,” Alfonse says sternly. “Gods, the two of you are incorrigible.”

Gordin grins, and Felicia laughs, and Alfonse tries desperately to smother the smile creeping up on his own face even as he tries again to scold them.

“Princess Veronica won’t kill me, else she’ll have a full-scale war against my Askran Kingdom. But you two have no such protections in your contracts. She can do anything she likes with you.”

“We understand your concern, sire,” Gordin says patiently. “And we’ll do our best to exercise more caution henceforth.”

“But we need to follow our hearts first,” Felicia says.

“But… Why me?” Alfonse asks. “I’m not… I’m not _worth_ it. I’m not worth getting hurt over.”

Felicia frowns. “How could you say that, milord? You’ve shown me such kindness in spite of your situation, and I’m honored to repay that kindness in turn.”

Alfonse opens his mouth to argue, but she cuts him off.

“I-in any case, we have a second surprise for you, Your Highness!”

Alfonse raises his eyebrows. “Really?” He can’t imagine what that might be, but given Felicia’s suddenly eager tone, it’s something she’s rather excited to announce.

“Oh, yes! I think you’ll be very pleased with it. Ready, Gordin?” She turns to the other servant, who nods. Together, they carry in a collapsible table from outside the cell laden with a covered serving platter and set it beside the desk. With a flourish, Felicia whips off the cover.

“Happy birthday, Your Highness!” they chorus.

Atop the platter sits a rather sloppy two-layer white cake, lined with strawberries and uneven plumes of frosting. Alfonse raises his eyes from the cake to Felicia’s beaming face.

“I made it myself late last night!” she says proudly. “It doesn’t _look_ perfect, but I promise this one tastes just fine!” She scrunches her hands together around her apron. “It was my third attempt.”

Alfonse bites his lower lip, swallows. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you very much. But… But it isn’t my birthday today.”

“Eh?” Felicia looks from him, to the cake, to Gordin, who frowns.

“Didn’t you--” he hisses before Felicia cuts him off.

“Of course!” She returns her attention to Alfonse. “But… It is your birthday, Your Highness. I-isn’t it? I checked all around--I was so sure!”

“U-unless I’ve been here a lot longer than I remember, no.” He swallows again.

Felicia fidgets with her apron. “Oh no… I-I’ve messed up yet again. I tried so hard to surprise you, Your Highness. I wanted to cheer you up, even just a little. But I guess even in this world, I’m still just a terrible maid!”

“Felicia,” Alfonse says, his voice wavering, then breaking. There are tears on his cheeks, and he hastily wipes them away. “Th-thank you. Thank you so very much. This means _so much_ to me. And Gordin--thank you as well. You two have sacrificed so much for me, I--” He chokes, unable to continue for fear of dissolving into tears entirely.

“D-don’t cry, sire!” Gordin rushes up to kneel before him. “It’s just as I said before--it is an honor to serve you.”

Felicia kneels beside Gordin. “We want you to be happy, milord, so please cheer up!”

“I-I _am_ happy,” Alfonse says, clearing his throat and scrubbing at his eyes with the backs of his hands. He takes a few moments to reclaim his breath. “You two are my only source of comfort in this joyless place. I-I thank you for that.”

Felicia beams. “Well, let’s not waste the cake!” she says, taking up the knife beside the platter.

“Perhaps I should,” Gordin says, moving to detain her before she can put the knife to use. “There are some… rather compelling rumors circulating about you amongst the kitchen staff.”

Felicia’s face drops, and Alfonse laughs. “You did well enough to make the cake, Felicia,” he says warmly. “I don’t see the harm in letting Gordin do his part.”

“As you will, Your Highness,” she concedes. “But you both ought to know that I am very proficient with knives on the battlefield.”

“All the more reason to let me do it,” Gordin says with a smirk. “Here you are, sire.”

He hands over a slice of cake and a fork on a small plate, which Alfonse gratefully accepts.

“It’s delicious!” he says once he’s swallowed his first bite. Felicia glows.

“I’m so happy to hear it!”

“It’s good,” Gordin agrees, setting down his fork. “Well done, Felicia.”

“Make sure you share what’s left with the other servants,” Alfonse says. “Maybe it will help curb some of those unscrupulous rumors spreading about.”

Felicia blushes. “Those rumors are unfounded, Your Highness! I won’t have you thinking there’s any truth to them at all!” But she can’t help but chuckle a little anyway.

The rest of the morning in spent in the company of the two servants, and Alfonse enjoys himself far more than he ever could have imagined since becoming a prisoner of Embla. When they dare stay no longer, they promise to return in the evening to bring him his dinner, and then, that done, again the next morning.

But when Alfonse wakes shortly after sunrise, it’s not by Felicia or Gordin but by the gruff, clipped voice of Bruno.

“Veronica requests your presence,” he says as Alfonse sits up in bed. “Come on.”

“I can’t walk very well,” Alfonse says. “My leg…”

Bruno slides his hands under his arms and lifts him that way, supporting him as he limps out of his cell. He brings him to Veronica’s sitting room, urging him in and closing the door behind them. Veronica is standing with her back to them, organizing some things on the footstool. She turns when she hears them enter and smiles.

“Oh, you’re here!” She bounds up to them. “How are you feeling today, Prince Alfonse?” she asks.

He glances to the side. “I’m alright, Princess Veronica.”

“Oh? But why the long face?” She cups her hands under his chin, angling his head downward so that their eyes meet. “Is your leg still very sore?”

He lets her nod his head yes and doesn’t even react when she slides her hand along his inner thigh, stroking the wound through his trousers.

“I hate seeing you so depressed,” she says, pouting. “That’s why we’re going to have so much fun playing today!”

He doesn’t respond, but his heartbeat accelerates. She frowns and steps back. “I suppose we should get started, then.”

She lifts a bundle of thin, white cord from the footstool. “I’m going to tie you up now,” she tells him, and he lowers his head. He knows better than to plead with her to change her mind--it will only make it worse. “Get on your hands and knees--we’re going about it rather differently today.”

Alfonse does, and despite saying she’ll do it herself, Veronica hands the cord to Bruno, who crouches beside him. “Stay still,” he orders.

He draws the rope around his arms, binding each wrist in turn, linking them together so that they’re shoulder-width apart. He does the same to his legs, tying a second length of cord just above his knee, winding it through the tether between his wrists, and finishing the bind on his other thigh. Alfonse is left on all fours, unable to stand or even extend his legs from his position. He looks up at Veronica, frowning.

“Doggies don’t walk on two legs,” she informs him, tapping him on the nose.

“I’m not a dog,” he says weakly. Veronica picks up her riding crop from the footstool and pokes at his lips with the end of it.

“They don’t _speak_ , either. They _bark_. So bark for me, doggy!”

Alfonse stares down between his arms, lip trembling. “Woof.”

He gasps when he feels the sting of the crop against his backside. “You don’t sound very convincing!”

“Ruff, ruff!” he says in earnest, cheeks aglow. “Ruff, ruff, ruff!”

“Now _that’s_ a good boy!” Veronica runs her hand through his hair, pausing to rub his ear. “You still need some obedience lessons, it seems.”

Mutely, Alfonse shakes his head no, but Veronica ignores him. She flops down on the sofa, then clicks her tongue. “Alfonse, come.”

He tries to crawl on his hands and knees, but his bindings trip him up, sending him spilling onto his side. Veronica giggles. “Poor puppy is still learning to walk!”

He tries again, this time moving deliberately, calculating each step. When he brings his arms too far forward, the ropes pull at his legs, throwing him off-balance. His jerking motions jostle the cage uncomfortably between his legs. Veronica watches in amusement as he struggles to reach her. He sits back on his folded legs at her feet when he does. The cord is tight, and he can already feel it start to chafe.

“Good boy.” He feels her stocking foot on the crown of his head, pressing lightly down on it. “You see, Bruno? All dogs obey once you take away their nasty bits. See how docile he is now that he has been effectively neutered?”

Her other foot finds its way between his legs, nudging the cage, and he whines, squeezing his hands into fists on his lap.

“I doubt that is all it will take to tame this one,” Bruno says from behind him; he flinches at the proximity. “I’ve witnessed firsthand just how troublesome he can be.”

“Oh?” Veronica removes both feet, leans forward on the edge of the sofa. “Then perhaps we ought to remind him of his place. Take down his trousers, Bruno. His drawers, too.”

Alfonse balks, tries to scuttle back, but Bruno’s large hands are suddenly clamped over his hips, pulling him back up onto his hands and knees. A moment later, his trousers are pushed down his legs as far as his bonds will allow for, then his drawers, exposing his bare bottom and his caged penis. With its increased sensitivity, the latter threatens to rise, but the steel bars cutting rings into it, anchoring it in place, allow it only partial success. The sensation is bizarre, both excruciating and maddeningly arousing, and a thin, breathy moan escapes his lips before he can stop it.

Veronica slides her foot again between his legs, pressing it up against his testicles, and he bites his lip to keep from making a sound. She pushes harder on him until finally, he sobs aloud, folding his elbows and lowering his torso in a vain attempt to shield his privates. In response, she withdraws her foot and delivers three quick lashes to his backside with the crop. He whimpers, collapsing fully onto his forearms, limbs tangled and cords tugging at his wrists and thighs.

“Get up, mutt!” Veronica snaps, striking him again, this time on his exposed flank. “Or shall I whip you between the legs as well?”

He’s dizzy as he struggles to reorient himself. He must look a mess; he licks his lips, tasting snot, tears, and a bit of blood, but he has no way to clean his face. He sits back on his haunches with his head tipped down and his hands tense in his lap.

“See? See how compliant he is now?” Veronica sounds triumphant, infuriatingly self-satisfied. Alfonse wants to contradict her at once but submits instead to his second, more measured thoughts, fearing her access to his most intimate parts.

“It will not last,” Bruno says smugly, and though he can’t be certain, it sounds to Alfonse as if he is provoking her.

Unsurprisingly, Veronica takes the bait. “I can make him do anything, you know.”

Alfonse is startled to find her foot suddenly pressed against his mouth. “Suck,” she says. He doesn’t move, frozen in shock and disgust.

“A good dog licks his mistress’s feet,” Veronica says as if by way of explanation. Still, Alfonse doesn’t open his mouth, not until she kicks his jaw and he has no choice. She forces her toes past his lips, nearly gagging him. The silk of her stocking is soon slick with saliva, which she uses to slide in more of her foot. He groans around it, trying to get her to remove it before he well and truly suffocates, but she only scoffs.

“Don’t just sit there, suck!” she snaps. She lifts her other leg and peels off the stocking, tossing it to the floor. “Must I make you?”

She slams her foot down on his genitals, and he lurches forward, nearly choking himself; he retches but somehow, mercifully, manages to keep from spitting anything up.

“It feels good, doesn’t it?” she asks, working her toes between the bars of his cage. The flesh-on-flesh contact makes him squirm, not entirely unpleasantly. He makes a muffled noise against the foot in his mouth, but even he can’t say whether he wants her to continue or not. As his pleasure gradually mounts, his penis grows firmer, unable to break free of its restraints. Soon, the cage becomes hot and cramped, abrading the sensitive flesh there. He grunts to show his displeasure, but she ignores it.

“Look how desperate your filthy little cock has become!” she says instead, working it faster between her toes. “It’s weeping to be placed inside of me, isn’t it?”

Alfonse shudders, shakes his head no. He can feel his fluid, thin and milky-white, coalescing at his tip, dribbling out from the tube slowly, and he wishes it would stop; he has no desire to take part in such an act with the likes of her.

She isn’t to be discouraged, however. “Unfortunately for you, my dear Alfonse, your cock will never know the pleasure of entering anything but its cozy little cage ever again! Yes, the only pleasure it shall receive will be solely on my terms!”

She yanks her foot from his mouth at the same time as she stomps down hard on his genitals with the other. He lets out a broken, protracted scream, saliva spilling from his mouth, dripping down his chin. She brings both feet together around him and begins kneading him. The cage and attached ring act as the rope did previously, keeping him painfully erect without allowing him to freely expel his seed. He starts to pant, pushing at her legs with his bound hands as his need for release intensifies. This is how it went last time, he hazily recalls, when she forced him to ejaculate whilst bound, but before he can think of some way to prevent a similar episode, a great shuddering pain washes over him as he spurts weakly out the tube and over her legs.

“There’s your fun,” Veronica says, finally releasing him as he wilts onto his side, sucking in air with all the vehemence of a drowning man. But it isn’t fun at all, and he’s even more aroused than before.

“It hurts,” he groans, grinding his hips and front against the marble floor, desperate for some kind of contact, any kind of contact there to sate his sudden, uncharacteristic neediness. “Please, I hate this!”

He receives a stunning lash to the cheek with the crop.

“ _Doggies_. _Don’t_. _Talk_ ,” Veronica hisses as he reels back, overwhelmed with pain. “Do you understand?”

“R-ruff,” Alfonse pants, cheeks inflamed with both humiliation and swelling from the blow. It hurts to use his mouth now, but he shudders to think what she’ll do to him if he can’t manage to entertain her.

“Now look at this awful mess you’ve made!” she says, holding out her bare leg. “Come lick it up like a good dog!”

The crop is still clenched tight in her hand; repulsed though he is, he doesn’t dare disobey her. He clambers back onto all fours, then hesitates. It isn’t much; the cage kept him from expelling all of himself onto her, and much of his fluid ended up stuck between the bars. And yet the very idea of having to lick up his own essence repels him, even more so when he spies a trace of blood in it, which perhaps explains the sharp ache in his penis.

He doesn’t _want_ to do it, and yet the sight of Veronica stroking her crop combined with the flashes of pain in his face and backside bid him slowly crawl to her feet. He closes his eyes, both against tears and out of shame, then leans forward and begins to lick. His taste is bitter and horribly familiar, a salty tang mixed with the sweat of her skin. He hears her gasp, feels her clutch at his hair with shaky fingers as he moves his tongue up her ankle and calf and then to her knee.

“Good boy,” she murmurs, her voice strangely tremulous. “Good boy, Alfonse.”

He licks her until all traces of him are gone and then some, too afraid of what will happen to him if he pulls back prematurely. Thankfully, she doesn’t keep him long after, thrusting away his head once she’s had enough and taking several moments to recompose herself.

“Rest your head in my lap, doggy,” she says once she has, patting the spot with one hand while wiping sweat from her brow with the other. “Come now, your mistress won’t hurt you!”

This is easier. Alfonse pulls himself forward and, haltingly and without trusting her much at all, lowers his chin into her lap. Her silk gown is cool, almost comforting to his skin, and he finds himself relaxing slightly as moments pass and she makes no move to harm him. Eventually, she brings her hands to his cheeks, gently rubbing her palms over them before smoothing strands of sweat-soaked hair from his eyes and tilting his face upwards. She’s smiling surprisingly serenely.

“You seem so nervous,” she says. “But I have something to cheer you up--how about we let a new mistress continue with your obedience training?”

Alfonse stares at her blankly, wordlessly. She drops his head from her lap and stands, moving to the other side of the room. “Bruno,” she calls, and it’s then that Alfonse realizes he’s no longer in the room with them--when did he leave? “Escort our guest in, won’t you?”

To his further surprise, he notices that the door is slightly ajar even though he’s certain Bruno closed it when they entered. That man steps in now, dragging by the arm someone so horribly familiar that it makes his heart go cold.

“Felicia,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Felicia hasn't been tortured nearly enough yet. ;) Also, I've been listening to Lady Gaga's "The Cure" lately, and it's strangely Felicia/Alfonse???
> 
> There's a reason Veronica won't just flat-out sleep with Alfonse. If it isn't terribly obvious given the time period and social status of those involved, it will be mentioned in a later chapter.
> 
> Happy 4th of July to all my American readers, and happy regular ol' day to everyone else! Next chapter is already underway, so it shouldn't take as long to post as this one was. :) Thank you all so very much for your comments and support! I read them all, and it really does warm my heart to know that people are enjoying reading this exercise in indulgence as much as I am writing it! <3


	10. Playful Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Veronica shows off her playful side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I'm back. I've had some pretty stressful stuff going on in my life recently, and for a while, I just didn't feel like writing. Things are better now, though, so please enjoy the chapter! :)

Felicia is trembling. Even as far away as he is, Alfonse can see that perfectly well. And it isn't difficult to discern the reason why. Her hands are bound, held limp at her waist, fingers twined together. Her face and neck are splashed with color, the dark blues and violets of bruises. She moves gingerly, with just the hint of a limp, as Bruno escorts her in by the arm. Even as Alfonse watches, she won't look at him; she keeps her eyes firmly averted from his corner. He feels a sudden hot rage boil to the surface.

“You _bastard_!” he snarls at Bruno. “What did you do to her? Release her at once!”

He'd almost forgotten about Veronica until he feels four quick lashes against his bare bottom. His arms buckle, but he manages to keep himself upright, though not without the realization that his trousers and drawers are still around his thighs. He hunkers to the ground, and Veronica whips him twice more, this time with the handle of the crop in a way he knows will bruise later.

“Did you forget so soon, Askran mutt?" She plants her bare foot atop his head as he sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Dogs can't _speak_! If you continue to disobey me, I _will_ have you muzzled!”

“Do whatever you like to me, but leave Felicia out of this! She's done nothing wrong!”

Felicia perks up a little at that, though still she won't look on him, and he wonders now if it's for the sake of his own bodily dignity.

Veronica hums in pleasure. “With your blessing, then!” She lifts her foot off him, then kneels to tug his drawers and trousers back over his hips. “But first, cover this unsightly thing! Such audacity to have it swinging about before two ladies like some barbarian!”

She spanks his bottom with the flat of her palm, and he grunts, flushing red.

“Honestly, I don’t know why you’re so agitated. So long as she behaves herself, I have no intention of harming your _precious_ maid.” She says this very smugly, even distastefully, as she lifts something up from the footstool, cradling it in both hands and gazing on it with a sort of reverence. From his spot on the floor, Alfonse cannot see what it is. “In fact, if she’s a good girl, she’ll surely end up enjoying herself quite well.”

She brings the thing over, and Alfonse recognizes it as the very same mask she forced Prince Corrin to wear. He rears back, but Bruno appears beside him at once, immobilizing him.

“Hold him still,” Veronica says, and Bruno’s hands clamp around his jaw, locking his head in place.

“Felicia!” he cries. She flinches but slowly turns to face him. “Do not worry yourself over me! Just do as she says--no matter what it may be!”

“M-milord,” she says in a small voice. “I-I can’t...”

“Felicia, that’s an order! _Please_ \-- _nngh_!” He’s interrupted by Bruno squeezing his jaw with bruising pressure, forcing his mouth to open wide. Veronica kneels and holds the mask before him, and he sees now that protruding from the inside is a large, sleek bulb of polished wood. It’s this that she forces into his mouth, scraping past his teeth and pushing down his tongue, reaching nearly the back of his throat. He gags around it as she fits the mask to his face, fastening it to his collar and around his head. The straps press severely into his skin, but she tightens them anyway, unconcerned with his discomfort. Once satisfied, she steps back, admiring her work.

“Oh, you look _much_ better like this,” she breathes, brushing her knuckles against a part of his cheek left exposed. “So _helpless_. Can’t stand up. Can’t even speak. Entirely at my mercy--my whims are your laws, and you must rely on me for _everything_.”

Alfonse tries to ignore her words, tries to focus on his breathing--in and out, through his nose, _stay calm_ \--but he’s almost sick with panic and humiliation. If Felicia weren’t a witness to his debasement, perhaps it would be easier, perhaps he’d take it as more of the same from the princess who never once showed him mercy anyway. As it is, he can only struggle to hold back tears as Veronica hooks a chain to his collar and tugs on it to lead him to where Felicia is standing.

“Lucky you, getting to play at mistress for the day!” she says. She moves to hand the lead over, then pauses. “Oh, Bruno, cut her free, the poor dear! She’s not a prisoner here!”

Bruno steps forward and, drawing a knife from his belt, slices through Felicia’s bonds. At once, she brings her hands together and rubs her wrists. Veronica holds out the lead, but Felicia hesitates. Alfonse’s stomach drops. He gazes up at her, imploring her with his eyes to obey, and, reluctantly, she does, accepting the lead, holding it gently against her breast as if it were a part of him that she’s deathly afraid of bringing to some harm.

Veronica beams. “You can make him do tricks, you know. Watch--Alfonse, sit!”

He doesn’t stop to think about it--it will only make it worse. He just sits back on his legs, resting his hands across his knees. Felicia blushes, making him blush in turn, again stricken by the ignominy of what he’s being made to do.

“Good boy!” Veronica ruffles his hair, gives him a playful smack on the head. “Give it a try, dear,” she says to Felicia. “Tell him to beg--he's _very_ good at that one.”

Alfonse starts to get into position to spare Felicia from having to ask, but Veronica strikes him across the feet with her crop. The thin fabric of his stockings isn’t enough to mute the pain, and he screams into his gag.

“Ah, ah, not yet, naughty doggy! Wait for your orders like a good boy.”

Breathing hard through his nose, Alfonse drags his head back up, forcing himself to meet Felicia’s horrified gaze. Please, he begs with his eyes, please, for both our sakes, just do as she says.

“B-beg,” she squeaks out, but Veronica clicks her tongue.

“You have to use his name, or he’ll be confused! Do it again!”

Alfonse turns to glare over his shoulder, but she isn’t paying him any heed.

“Prince Alfonse, p-please, beg,” Felicia says.

“Does that look like a prince to you?” Veronica demands. “He’s a _dog_. Dogs can’t be princes! Dogs can only obey their mistresses!”

“I-I’m sorry--”

“If you’re sorry, say it right this time!”

Felicia’s trembling, looking like she might pass out at any moment. “A-Alfonse,” she says, cringing as she says it, “b- _beg_.”

Alfonse waits a beat for another correction, and when it doesn’t come, he sits back on his legs and lifts his hands as high as his bonds will allow, wrists limp.

“Good boy," Veronica says, petting his head again. “You ought to praise him, too, Felicia! Give him a nice pat on the head--he deserves it!”

“G-good boy,” Felicia all but whispers, cautiously extending her hand. Alfonse lowers his head slightly to encourage her, but he blushes all the same when he feels her fingers in his hair, cautiously rubbing the crown of his head.

Veronica crosses her arms thoughtfully. “Hmm... Let’s see what else he can do. Have him roll over for us, won’t you, dear?”

Felicia steps back. “R-roll over, Pr--Alfonse.”

This takes more thinking. Alfonse crouches on all fours, keeping low to the ground. Using his elbow, he pushes himself onto his side, then turns onto his back. The marble floor hurts his sore, beaten backside, and his bonds force his arms and legs straight up, perpendicular to the ground. He makes a small noise of pain as the cords press firmer into his skin.

“Oh, good boy, Alfonse!” Veronica cries, dropping to her knees beside him. “Come, Felicia! Good dogs deserve a nice belly rub, do they not?”

Alfonse flinches as Veronica brushes up his tunic and puts her hand on his stomach, stroking with the backs of her fingers. Felicia kneels down on his other side but hesitates to touch him.

“Go on." Veronica pushes his tunic up even further so that it bunches under his arms. He’s almost forgotten his nipple rings until Veronica yanks on the chain between them, and he cries into his gag, limbs shuddering. “Or would you rather play with these?”

She pumps his left nipple up to erectness with her thumb and forefinger, making Alfonse whimper and kick his lower legs out even as he draws his knees inward. _Not that_ \--he hadn’t wanted Felicia to see _that_. It’s enough for her to see him like this, bound, exposed, reduced to less than an animal. For her to see how far he’s allowed himself to be degraded--it’s _too much_.

Felicia puts her hand on his stomach, and he jolts, arcing his back. She whips back her hand as if it had met with hot coals but, on receiving a sour look from Veronica, returns it to the space between his breast and his abdomen, giving him a few short, swift strokes there before withdrawing altogether.

“I had to pierce him because he was a naughty boy,” Veronica explains, flipping his ring back and forth between her fingers. “But why do you look so surprised? Has he not shown you yet? He loves showing his body to innocent maidens, the shameless wretch.”

Alfonse makes a noise in objection to that, his face burning, and Veronica responds by pinching his nipple until a bit of blood and pus trickles out from the wound that is still far from healed. He groans, chest throbbing, but she gives him no respite, leaping to her feet and catching the slack of his chain, pulling it until his collar squeezes against his throat, closing it off to air. He struggles to reorient himself, crawl back onto his hands and knees so he can relieve the pressure. He winds up doubled over at her feet, nearly choking on the protrusion in his mouth and frantically trying not to vomit. He hates the damnable thing, and the thought of having to wear it long-term like he suspects Prince Corrin has to terrifies him. He prays it won’t become a part of her normal routine.

Is that what this is now, he asks himself then in quiet shock. Nothing more than a routine? Has he become so accustomed to her abuses that they’re now his standard?

“We're going to take the doggy on a walk in the gardens!” Veronica says, and Alfonse goes very still. The gardens? He's going _outside_ \--looking like _this_?

Felicia, it turns out, is thinking much the same. “Oughtn't we to stay indoors, Majesty?” she asks nervously, playing the leash between her fingers. “It's rather warm out for a walk, and--”

“Be silent!” Veronica snaps. She returns to the sofa where she pulls on her abandoned stocking, then her boots. “Bruno, bring me my reading. Then you can go off and do as you please--I have Felicia to entertain me today.”

Alfonse notes that Bruno won’t even look at him as he passes Veronica her book, and for some reason, that aversion shames him further. Veronica, for her part, turns to Felicia and smiles, her anger apparently already forgotten 

“Shall we?”

Felicia reluctantly follows her out the door, her grip on the lead loose, uncommitted. It gives Alfonse enough time to scramble after her without hurting his knees too terribly on the marble, though he’s certain they will be sufficiently bruised by day’s end. The pain starts to set in much sooner, however, due to Veronica’s clipped pace. Surreptitiously, Felicia slows and exaggerates her limp, allowing him more time to keep up, until Veronica demands that she not dawdle, and then Alfonse is forced to quicken his pace as well. By the time they reach the staircase, his hands and legs are flushed red, and his knees are tender.

“Down you go, doggy,” Veronica says, nudging him in the backside with her booted foot. Alfonse tentatively puts one hand on the step below, pausing when he feels the tug of his bonds against his leg. Warily, he maneuvers one leg onto the step, then the other, sidestepping like a crab until he reaches the third floor landing. Veronica pushes on ahead, muttering her irritation as she passes him by, but Felicia stays close beside him as he begins his second descent, keeping her leg discreetly at his side so as to catch him on it should he slip and fall. She touches his shoulder gently, a show of support, he assumes, when at last, sweating, he reaches the ground floor.

“You’re so terribly slow!” Veronica complains, grabbing the lead from Felicia and jerking it so that his collar strains against his throat. “Would you like me to punish you for being a very disobedient doggy?”

He shakes his head wildly, but she cuts him across the back with her riding crop anyway. He yelps, the sound muted by the mask, and cowers against the ground.

“P-please, Your Majesty!” Felicia cries out. “He did his best! H-he didn’t want to fall!”

Veronica grabs Felicia by the collar of her dress and pulls her in, tipping back her head on the points of her nails. “Do not speak out of turn, maid, or I shall make you into my second doggy. Do you understand me?”

“Y-yes, Majesty!”

Veronica releases her and hands back the lead. “Then come. Both of you.”

She turns on her heel, and Alfonse hurries after her, urging Felicia to follow him. He doesn’t want to put this burden on her if he can help it; he wants only to get through this as painlessly as possible and pray that Veronica does not see fit to involve Felicia ever again.

In other circumstances, he might have appreciated the warmth and openness that greet them when they step outside the palace. The air is balmy, but a steady breeze is enough to keep it temperate where otherwise it might have been sweltering. The cobblestones are still hot beneath his hands, encouraging him to match Veronica’s brisk pace into the garden, pushing through the pain for fear of the heat. He tries to keep his attention on his crawling, hand first, then knee, then hand again, but they soon happen upon a servant pruning a row of hedges. Veronica stops to speak with him, and though Alfonse tries to keep his head down, he can’t help but glance up from time to time to find the servant’s gaze lingering uncomfortably upon him. His cheek is warm from both the sun and his shame.

They walk on for perhaps a quarter of an hour, wending their way through the many paths of the garden. Alfonse’s knees and hands have started to ache something terrible, the heat and coarseness of the stones abrading away the skin of his palms until there are traces of blood left on both. Veronica eventually leads them to the large rock basin, pausing for a moment at the bench before it and then taking a seat. Alfonse gratefully falls back onto his haunches, breathing heavily through his nose.

“If you’re a good boy,” Veronica says, “I will take your muzzle off and allow you to drink. Will you behave?”

Alfonse nods his head vigorously, which makes her giggle. “Alright, alright, you silly boy! Hold still.”

She moves his head into her lap and works at undoing the straps. He waits impatiently; his jaw is aching, and the inside of the mask is humid from his breath and sweat. Finally, Veronica pulls the mask away, drawing the bulb from his mouth, clacking against his teeth. Alfonse ravenously takes in the fresh air, saliva dribbling from his lips as his jaws fall shut. There’s a ring of sweat around his face where the mask pressed into. His lips are cracked and dry, and his throat is sore with thirst. Veronica rubs his ear before directing him to climb atop the lip of the pool, which he does with some difficulty.

“Go have a drink, then. With your face, like a dog--no using your hands.”

Alfonse flattens himself against the rim, considering what will be the most practical way to get his mouth to the water. Eventually, he determines the only way is to keep his arms folded beneath his stomach and inch forward till he can reach it. Pressed against stone, his collar cuts into his neck, but he’s so thirsty he hardly cares, dipping his face low to lap up the mercifully cool water. He can hear Veronica titter, but he ignores her, ignores Felicia, who’s deathly silent anyway.

At last, he lifts his head, gasping for air, chin dripping. His arms have gone numb and tingly, but somehow, he manages to resettle himself back onto all fours at Veronica’s feet.

“Feeling better?”

He nods slowly, knowing better than to speak. His eyes flick to the side, to the mask lying abandoned on the bench.

“Be a good boy and I won’t have to put it back on,” Veronica says, following his gaze. “Now, lie down so I can enjoy my reading.”

Alfonse lowers himself onto his calves and forearms, but before he can even attempt to make himself comfortable, Veronica leans back against the bench and lays her feet across his spine. He grunts at the added weight but manages to keep himself from saying anything else. He hardly knows why he’s surprised that she’s degraded him to the role of a mere footstool--it’s just like her, after all, to treat him as one of her possessions. He tucks his head between his arms to hide his frustrated, embarrassed tears should they spill over and to blind himself to the judging glances of any servants who chance to pass by.

They remain this way for a long while. Alfonse focuses on his breathing again, desperate to shut out the world around him. At least he’s clothed, he tells himself, a feeble attempt at reassurance. He’s bound, but everyone here already knows he’s a prisoner. He isn’t wearing the mask anymore, which is a small comfort. Nobody approaches their group as far as he can hear, but given their position on the hill, anyone passing through the gardens has a prime vantage point from which to view him, a prince reduced to a bit of furniture. His stomach roils in indignation.

He becomes aware, gradually, of a pressure growing in his lower abdomen. He tries to ignore it at first, but the concerted effort succeeds only in keeping it at the forefront of his mind. He sucks in his bottom lip and chews on it to keep himself silent, but the pressure only mounts, and Veronica shows no indication of getting up any time soon. He quickens his breathing, shifts restlessly under her feet, hoping to rouse her attention. He dares to let out a near-imperceptible groan. Still, she does not stir, but Felicia takes notice at once, casting a worried look over him.

“Your Majesty, I think--” she starts, only for Veronica to loudly shush her.

“Shut up. I’m reading.”

Felicia shares with him a desperate, despairing look. His stomach has started to cramp, and his bladder, tight and tender, threatens to release at every movement of her feet. He regrets drinking that water now, regrets not petitioning Bruno to allow him to relieve himself before being brought before the princess. When was the last time he did? No sooner than last night, he realizes, and he shudders. He can’t take it anymore. He dips to the ground with a choked sob.

Veronica looks up at that, brows creased. “What do you want, dog?” she asks, sounding quite peevish at the interruption.

Weakly, Alfonse lifts himself back onto all fours, tries to gesture to his abdomen with one hand.

“Huh? You have to pee?”

Alfonse nods, and Veronica bursts into laughter.

“What is it? You aren’t housebroken yet, pup?” She draws back her feet and crouches beside him, sliding both hands around him and pressing at his abdomen, causing him to instinctively pull away.

“Well, we’re already outdoors. Let’s go over to this grassy spot here so you can learn.”

She reclaims his leash from Felicia and leads him to the grass. Unlike Bruno, she doesn’t take him into the trees, away from the eyes of the palace, but rather leaves him in full view of any who may be looking on. She doesn’t pull down his trousers, either, just steps back and says, “Well, go on, then.”

Alfonse stares up at her, appalled.

“Oh?” she says silkily. “Did you want your new mistress to take you instead?”

His heart sinks as she calls Felicia over. He shakes his head no, but that only makes her strike him on the rear with her crop. His muscles clench, and he nearly loses himself right there. He whimpers, withdraws into himself, frantic to not spill his bladder here, before these two women.

But Veronica’s thin patience gets the best of her. “How dare you make me wait!” She brings the crop against his backside again.

Alfonse chokes on air, and his muscles relax, release. He presses his legs together, curls over with his hands to his groin, but it’s too late, and he already feels the warmth, the wetness soaking through the seam of his trousers. He tries, in a panic, to regain control of his bladder, but his body, craving relief, refuses to obey. His bladder succeeds in voiding itself, leaving him shaking and humiliated in the aftermath.

“Dirty boy,” Veronica says, and it’s all that he can take.

“Are you--are you happy now?” he demands, voice cracking, breaking off into a sob. “Now you’ve succeeded in torturing me--and--and humiliating me--in front of--in front--”

The sting of the crop blazes across one shoulder, then the other.

“ _Who_ said you could speak?”

Veronica cuts him across the side and then, once he’s collapsed, on his stomach. “Mangy dog!”

“Princess, please, _stop_!”

Alfonse hears Felicia’s voice through a haze of pain. He struggles to draw himself to his knees but can't manage it, succeeding only in falling back onto his side. “Felicia,” he breathes. He wants to beg her not to get involved, but he can’t seem to form words beyond her name.

Veronica rains a flurry of blows down on him, each more impassioned than the last. “Disobeying me--you’ll come to regret it, fool!”

It hurts. He can’t recall ever experiencing such pain, not in the heat of battle nor the aftermath. He can feel his skin cleave apart where the crop connects with bare flesh, can feel the welts and bruises that will torment him later already forming. For a moment, for several moments, he wishes, truly, to die.

There’s a weight over him suddenly, warm and soft. He opens his eyes and sees only the corner of a white apron.

“Your Majesty, please stop!” Felicia’s voice rumbles from above him, vibrating from her chest to his shoulder; he shivers. “He’ll die--he’ll _really_ die! _Please_! I’ll do _anything_!”

He hears the swish of the crop and her scream, and he stirs.

“Don’t,” he murmurs, shifting beneath her. “Don’t touch me… I'm... dirty… I’m so…” He squirms a little in his wet trousers. “Ugh... I’m not... not worth…”

“Get out of my way, maid, or I’ll kill you!”

Nobody's listening. There’s another whip lash, another scream. Felicia doesn’t move.

Alfonse tries to roll her off him, tries to talk to her, at least, because he doesn’t want her hurt on his behalf, because she doesn't _deserve_ to, but his vision blurs, then dims, and he’s unconscious before he can do anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that chapter 12. Good thing I long suspected something like this would happen and started planting seeds. ;) Expect as much canon compliance as is possible in a canon-diverging story. =)
> 
> Thanks as always for your patience and support! Please leave a comment if you're enjoying this--it really does help light a fire under me to keep writing. <3


	11. Punished Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfonse is a lightweight and certain punishment is in order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very sorry for the long delay! I've recently started a new job, and I have my professional writing I've been focusing on as well. Updates may be slower than before, but I'll try to release at least one chapter a month! Thanks as always for sticking with me and validating my silly, self-indulgent smut! <3

Right before he disappeared, as they stood body to body in that breezy, open plain where the grass was too tall and the sun was too hot, Zacharias kissed Alfonse.

There was no provocation for it as far as Alfonse could tell. They were traveling together with a handful of soldiers to some of Askr’s fringe villages to improve morale in the wartime, and when they’d stopped to break for lunch, he and Zacharias had stolen away on their horses to find respite from their overbearing company. They’d been sitting back to back peeling apples they’d looted from the supply of rations when Zacharias abruptly stood, knocking Alfonse onto his back.

“What was that about, Zach?” he’d grumbled, sitting up and brushing grass and dirt off his tunic.

“Alfonse. Come here,” Zacharias said in an odd, strained voice. When Alfonse stood as well, that’s when he moved in.

The moment was far more picturesque than such moments are wont to be despite all the romance popularly given them. The sky was blue and vast. The breeze was slight, enough only to sift through their hair like the caress of gentle hands. Brown grass crawled up to their hips as Zacharias put his arms around Alfonse’s back and his mouth on his lips.

It lasted no more than seven seconds, if even that, and then Alfonse pulled away. It wasn't a big deal, is what Zacharias told him after when he’d started to panic (it _was_ a big deal to him), it was just something boys did, something that showed they were becoming men. He was still holding a paring knife, gripped tight in his right hand, and when Alfonse, in his need to distract himself from what had just transpired, inquired as to why, and informed him that he could have chanced to stab him when he’d put his arms around him like that, Zacharias only shrugged.

“But I didn’t,” he said, and his voice was stiff, so unlike him that Alfonse felt even more discomfited, but he resolved to speak no more on it, not least of all for the sake of his own abashed dignity.

They never did speak of the kiss again, and Zacharias was gone before their trip was up.

-

Alfonse wakes up in pain. Every part of him hurts, from his shins and thighs up to his shoulders and even his face. His memory's spotty, and he has a feeling he ought to keep it that way for now. He has the presence of mind, at least, to try to ease himself back into the unconscious bliss of sleep. It doesn't work; he's awake enough now that the pain is impossible to ignore.

He opens his eyes to find himself staring up at the canopy of his bed. The room is dark, but there's a candle on the desk and a fire in the grate, offering some illumination as well as casting long, jagged shadows against the bars. He isn't alone; slumped forward on his stool, head and arms resting on the edge of the mattress, is Gordin, sleeping soundly. Alfonse regards him curiously for a moment, then tries to sit up. He regrets it immediately; a ravenous pain spikes through every part of him, and he groans, rousing the sleeping servant.

"Ah--Your Highness, don't move!"

Gordin jumps to his feet and catches him by the shoulders, gently lowering him back onto the pillows. "Hold on--I'll get you some water."

Alfonse has to chew the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out as Gordin slips his hand beneath his head and carefully lifts it, guiding the crystal glass to his lips. Alfonse drinks so fast that he chokes, spraying water over the duvet. Gordin dries his his face and chin with a handkerchief before lowering him back onto his pillows.

"I have a bit of wine if you'd like, sire," he says. "For the pain."

"Please," Alfonse rasps, and Gordin retrieves from the desk a heavy goblet filled to the brim with a dark liquid. This time, Alfonse takes measured sips, savoring the flavor as well as the lightness that gradually claims him, dulling the pain. Once he's finished, Gordin returns the empty vessel to the desk and then takes up his post on the stool at his bedside.

"How are you feeling?" he asks him.

"H-hurting," Alfonse manages. He clears his throat. "What time is it?"

Gordin dips his hand to the belt at his waist and lifts an old pocket watch by its chain. "Nearly three in the morning," he reads by the light of the candle. "You've been asleep for about two days now, sire."

"T-two _days_?"

"Yes. I won’t force you, but you ought to eat something once you feel able to."

But that isn’t his major concern at present. “What of Felicia?” he asks sharply. “She--she took blows for my sake. She could be hurt! I need to speak to her!”

Gordin reaches up to the back of his neck, tugs at his hair. “I-I’m sorry, sire--I’ve neither seen nor heard from Felicia in two days.”

Alfonse feels his heart rate start to accelerate. “Th-then find her--we have to find her!” he gasps, struggling under the bedclothes in a vain attempt at extricating himself from them, but the pain, as well as Gordin’s hand against his breast, detain him.

“Forgive my impertinence,” he says, removing his hand at once, “but nothing good will come of you moving about now, Prince Alfonse.”

“But Felicia!” Alfonse cries, nearly growling in frustration. “She was injured! She could be injured now! I can’t allow her to die!"

“Please try to relax, sire! Felicia is alive--other servants have seen her. She won’t speak to any of them, however, and dashes off the moment she’s confronted. I think she needs to be alone for now.”

Expended of energy but light with relief, Alfonse falls back onto his pillows. “Are you sure?” Gordin nods. “I-I see. Then... I suppose... we have no choice but to give her her space.” He says this last part unwillingly; he wishes she would at least speak to him, confirm that she’s alright. The reason she won’t, he can’t help himself from thinking, is likely because she’s _not_ alright, because she’s hurting and she doesn’t want him to see it. It would be just like her to do such a thing.

“Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable in the meantime, Your Highness?” Gordin asks.

"No, it’s quite alright--you don't have to stay beside me, Gordin. You’ve already done enough for me. Go take some rest in your quarters."

Gordin glances nervously at the cell door. "Even if I were inclined to leave you, sire, that would be impossible--Princess Veronica has locked me up in here without a key. She wanted someone by your side constantly, and I suppose she feared you would attempt escape if I had a key to your cell on my person."

Alfonse glares into the darkness. "I've already made it very clear to her that I have no intentions of fleeing. Even now." He shudders, skimming the welts on his arm with the pads of his fingers. "She likes having me wholly under her control with no agency of my own, so I suppose I oughtn't to be surprised."

"Regardless, sire, I'm happy to remain at your side as you recover," Gordin says cheerfully. “So rest easy knowing I’ll be here should you need anything.”

“I appreciate it, Gordin, I really do,” Alfonse says, “but I have to know”--he expels a tense breath--”why do you care so much about my well-being? I’ve thought it over, and I can’t seem to figure it out. Is it out of obligation because--because I’m royalty? Or is it because of Princess Veronica’s contract?”

“It’s none of that, Your Highness!” Gordin says with a laugh that makes Alfonse feel suddenly very foolish, though he can’t entirely explain why. “As I told you before, though I'm merely a pawn to Princess Veronica here, I proudly serve Prince Marth back in my own world and hold the deepest affection for him. I also have a best friend named Draug and a little brother named Ryan, both of whom I love with all my heart. But even though I can't see any of them right now, I have hope that we'll meet again someday. And in the meantime, I have you, Prince Alfonse." He smiles, and Alfonse blushes in spite of himself. "You're kind and strong, just like them. And you’re the most selfless person I’ve ever met, putting yourself through all of this for the sake of your country and people. I can’t help but admire that about you--and grow attached to you in turn. So I cherish the bond that we share, and I'm honored to serve at your side.”

“S-stop,” Alfonse says, his neck growing hot. “You don’t have to say such things to cheer me up...”

“I mean it, Your Highness. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.” Gordin smooths the covers down over him in motherly fashion. “You needn’t worry about things like that now, however. Just rest and recover your strength.”

Alfonse feels like a child again, being babied by the family servants. He’s far too drunk and exhausted, however, to feel very self-conscious about it, and soon enough, he slips back off to sleep.

He wakes periodically through the night in varying degrees of pain, and true to his word, Gordin is there to tend to him each and every time with salve for his wounds and wine and gentle reassurances. Once, he wakes to Gordin arguing with someone in possession of a stern and powerful voice that rings all too familiar to him. He opens his eyes and is awash in cold dread as he perceives Prince Xander there in full armor, arms crossed and jaw set.

“Her Majesty ordered me not to leave his side, milord,” Gordin says firmly, but Alfonse can perceive his small frame shaking.

“I will not relieve you from your post for long,” Xander says. “Do not make me remove you by force.”

“Gordin,” Alfonse says softly, and Gordin jumps and whirls around. “It’s alright. Just do as he says.”

“But Your Highness--!”

“Go. Please.” He won’t see him hurt again. Not on his account.

Gordin relents and ducks out of the cell. He glances behind him when he reaches the door, then pulls it open and departs.

“Loyal, that one,” Xander comments, sounding rather impressed and perhaps even pleased.

Alfonse struggles to orient himself into a sitting position, wincing at the pull at his wounds as he moves. “Prince Xander. What do you want of me?”

“What is this?” Xander asks in honest curiosity, ignoring the question, and Alfonse blushes wildly as he skims his fingers across the gold band encircling his throat. “Is this... a collar?”

“Yes,” Alfonse mumbles, staring off to the side.

“But--but why are you wearing it?” Xander sounds nearly at a loss for words, which, somehow, is something of a comfort coming from the seemingly infallible prince. “What is it’s utility?”

Don’t make me answer that, Alfonse wants to say, but of course, he can’t. “Princess Veronica makes me wear it. She... fixes leashes to it so that she can better control my movements.” Looking down at it now, he realizes Veronica must have removed the chain linking it to the one between his nipples, and it’s a small relief that Xander has no occasion to see it and thereby follow it to its source.

“That is... an odd designation,” Xander says, sounding as if he knows very well how he feels about it but is pretending otherwise. “I-in any case, my purpose in coming here is simply to check up on your health. Excuse me...” Before Alfonse can object, he starts to lift his tunic up.

“No!” Alfonse grabs his wrist with both hands, stopping it on level with his breast.

Xander frowns. “I’m not going to hurt you. You have my word.” He pries Alfonse’s hands back and pulls his tunic up under his arms. Alfonse closes his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest, desperate to conceal the signs of his debasement, but instead of meeting with cool metal, he’s shocked to feel the coarseness of linen against his skin.

“Come now, move your arms so I can take a look,” Xander chastises, and numbly, Alfonse obeys, looking down to find the uppermost portion of his torso wrapped in clean, white bandages. Meanwhile, his stomach and shoulders are striped with lash marks and bruises. Did Veronica foresee this, he wonders, and opt to preserve something of his dignity? He can’t entirely rule it out, though he’s reluctant to give her such credit.

True to his word, Xander doesn’t harm him, doesn’t even touch him, just looks him over with an increasingly furrowed brow before letting his tunic fall back over him. Alfonse curls up against his knees, gazing warily up at him. How degraded he feels by comparison, reduced to a meek, cowering shell of a prince who allowed himself to be captured because he could not lead his army to victory.

But all Xander says is, “I’ll send a cleric to treat your wounds.” He gets up to leave.

“How kind of you,” Alfonse snaps before he can temper his frustration. “But do you not find it disgraceful to allow fellow royalty to suffer as I have suffered at the hands of Princess Veronica?”

Xander turns. “Even royalty must be punished for disobedience, as my siblings and I rightly know,” he says, though his tone is not as firm as might have been expected.

Alfonse laughs grimly, an unpleasant sound even to his own ears. “Even if I have been disobedient, as the princess alleges, do you find my wounds, which you have just now seen with your own eyes, to be fair retribution for such actions?” Xander is silent, so he continues, “I have been tortured in ways that even you cannot imagine, Prince Xander.”

He presses his legs together unconsciously, feeling the heaviness of the cage between them.

“I will... have words with the princess,” Xander says at last. “Rest for now. The cleric will be up momentarily.”

He departs after that, and Alfonse slumps against his pillows, cringing at the pain that thrums up through him. The cleric, arriving a quarter of an hour later, helps ease the ache somewhat with her staff, and he’s able to sleep comfortably for a time. When he wakes again, it’s late afternoon, and Gordin is at his bedside with a goblet of milk and brandy and a bowl of hot porridge mixed with strawberries and honey.

“Any news of Felicia?” Alfonse asks weakly as Gordin props him up on a stack of pillows.

“No, sire. I managed to locate her when Prince Xander sent me away, but she would not speak to me when I call out to her. I gave chase, of course, but she was fast to lose me.” Gordin sighs, taking a seat on the stool by the bed and balancing the bowl of porridge on his knee. “Quick as she is, she doesn’t appear to be terribly injured at the least.”

“Perhaps she’s too disgusted with me and can’t bear to face me.”

Gordin holds up a spoonful of porridge, which Alfonse reluctantly accepts. He doesn’t realize how hungry he is until the food is in his mouth, warm and savory.

“I can’t imagine that that is the case at all, Your Highness. If you don’t mind me speculating, I think she is feeling some misplaced guilt at her part in bringing you to harm.”

Alfonse swallows too quickly and gasps at the heat that catches in his throat. Once he can speak again, he says, “She was under duress--and I ordered her to play along--how could she think I would be angry at her for such a thing?”

“Much in the same way that _you_ were distressed when you were complicit in my harm while _you_ were under duress, sire,” Gordin says gently, feeding him another bite. “But of course I didn’t blame you!”

Alfonse slowly chews and swallows, contemplating. “Yes,” he concedes at last, “I suppose you’re right. But please, Gordin--if you can somehow get word to her that I’m okay, that I don’t blame her, and that I’m worried, then...”

“Yes, of course! I’ll leave a message in her quarters with what you’ve told me and try to track her down in the meantime.”

“Thank you. I truly am indebted to the both of you. You two--you give me hope in this wretched place.”

Gordin flushes a deep red, and Alfonse reciprocates, to his embarrassment.

The remainder of the day is passed in relative comfort. Alfonse, dizzy from the alcohol, spends much of it in a dreamlike state while Gordin reads to him from various tomes taken from the bookshelf until late into the night. He must have fallen asleep eventually, for at some point, he has another dream about Zacharias--but he’s woken out of it by the sound of impassioned voices before he can remember much of what it was about.

“Princess Veronica, you cannot treat him this way! I’ve seen it myself--he is feverish and weak! It is verging on a war crime to abuse a captive this way, not to mention hardly diplomatic considering he has willingly surrendered himself to you! There is punishment, and then there is torture, and this--this is something that my f--that the previous king of Nohr would have done, and I cannot tolerate it!”

“Oh, Xander, I understand, I do--please, please don’t leave me! I only meant to punish him for his _constant_ insubordination and disobedience--I never meant to cause any severe harm! He _is_ terribly disobedient, you know!”

Alfonse curls his hands into fists under the covers. He hears the creaking of his cell door opening, but he keeps his eyes shut.

“I will not leave you, Princess--and I would not dare to leave his care to you as it is,” Xander says sharply. “But I will teach you the proper way to punish disobedient wards. I have, after all, had to do it many a time myself.” Xander pauses, apparently observing him. “See how flushed he is? One of his wounds must have gotten infected. I’ve had him seen and treated by a cleric, who said he ought to come around within two weeks’ time.”

“Oh, thank you, Xander!” Veronica cries, sounding for all the worlds like a giddy sycophant, and it’s so jarringly uncharacteristic of her that it puts Alfonse immediately on his guard.

“Since I will be administering to him some manner of corporal punishment”--Alfonse has to consciously keep himself from physically reacting to the term--“we must wait until he is recovered. After all, punishment is meant to discipline, Princess Veronica, not to wear him down until he’s clinging to life.”

“Yes, yes, I made a mistake! Oh, Xander, won’t you forgive me?”

Xander sighs. “I could never be mad at you, Princess.” Alfonse wonders how long that would remain true if only he knew the true nature of her cruelty. “You may go. I will examine Prince Alfonse and report back to you shortly.”

Princess Veronica mutters her assent, and Xander waits for the door to close behind her before speaking again. “I know you’re awake.”

Alfonse opens his eyes. “What do you want from me now?”

“Be at ease. It is as I said; I just wish to examine you.”

It’s morning and rather early into it, Alfonse determines, given the weak, gray light reaching through the window. Gordin is in the corner of the cell, kneeling and with his head turned down. Xander is standing at the foot of the bed looking pensive, but after a moment, he approaches. Alfonse squirms as he pulls back his covers and brushes up his tunic.

“I don’t understand,” he says, creasing his brow. “All of your wounds seem to be healing just fine. And yet--”he slips his hand beneath Alfonse’s hair, feeling his forehead--”you’re burning up.”

He pulls the blankets down further, and Alfonse tries to turn onto his side, terrified of the bulge in his trousers showing through, but Xander stays him with a firm hand. “Don’t move. I’m just going to check your legs.”

Alfonse shivers and holds his knees together as Xander rolls up the left leg of his trousers. He stops abruptly, and Alfonse looks down and realizes he’s gotten to the bloodied bandages covering the wound on his thigh.

“Don’t touch it!” he snaps, kicking away Xander’s hand, but he regrets the action when pain pinches up and down his leg.

“What is this?” Xander asks, apparently unperturbed by his violent display.

Alfonse gingerly folds his leg up to his torso. “It’s a wound.”

“How did you get it?”

Alfonse buries his face in his pillow. “The princess,” he mutters.

“What was that?”

He turns his head slightly. “I said the princess! The princess gave it to me! She stabbed me!”

Xander looks taken aback. “Why did she stab you?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know why she does anything!”

He feels so pathetic, curled up like a frightened animal in its den, fearful of what lies beyond. Thankfully, Xander doesn’t push him.

“I’m going to send the cleric up again,” he says. “You _must_ allow her to clean your wound. It’s most likely the source of your infection. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.” Alfonse doesn’t look at him, and Xander sighs.

“Very well. But do not resist the cleric. I can’t guarantee your continued survival if you don’t allow her to treat you.”

He departs, and the instant the door closes behind him, Gordin leaps up like an unwound spring. “Are you okay, Your Highness?” he asks, arranging the blankets so that Alfonse is covered again.

“Yes... Yes, I’m okay.” Alfonse hugs the blankets up to his chin. “Thank you for worrying about me.” It makes him a bit queasy, thinking on how accomplished a liar he's become of late.

The days move sluggishly from there on, dragging out his recovery along with them. Gordin is eventually relieved of his strict nursing duties and put back to work in the palace at large, but he returns frequently to provide care when he can. Slowly, slowly, Alfonse begins to feel healthier though scarcely livelier. Once his leg is strong enough to stand on, he takes up pacing his cell with the same dedication of one taking up a sport. He realizes he must look very much like a penned animal at a zoo, restlessly prowling the perimeter of its confines, but he's finding it exceedingly difficult to get himself to stop.

Felicia continues to avoid him, and that makes him pace even more. Frequently, Gordin claims to see her but insists she will not be approached. Whether or not she read the note left for her at Alfonse’s behest can be neither confirmed nor denied, to his mounting distress. Veronica, at least, remains distant, and Bruno only removes him to the washroom every few days in order to bathe him and clean his wounds and cage. Through little fault of his own, Alfonse finds his spirits sinking lower and lower. His near-total isolation is maddening, and Felicia’s behavior, increasingly worrying.

One day, more than a week after Xander’s last visit, Gordin enters his room looking exceedingly depressed.

“I’m sorry, sire,” he says, hanging his head. “I’ve been instructed to take you to the princess.”

The direction is unpleasant but hardly shocking.

“I understand,” Alfonse says, even as he tries to calm his breathing. He follows Gordin out of the cell and then hesitates at the door. “Usually she has me bound,” he says uncertainly when Gordin makes no move to do so--he isn’t even carrying any form of restraint on him.

“Then perhaps this time she doesn’t mean to harm you?” Gordin suggests hopefully.

But Alfonse shakes his head. “I’m to be punished by Prince Xander today, I’m certain of it. He promised as much for when I was recovered.”

Gordin stares miserably at his feet as he apologizes. They make their way to the sitting room. Veronica and Xander are already there, the former seated languorously on the sofa and the latter speaking in soft tones to her. He turns when the double doors are eased open.

“Leave us,” he says to Gordin, who departs with one last helpless look, closing the doors behind him. To Alfonse, the sound has never felt more damning.

Xander, meanwhile, turns his full attention to him.

“Prince Alfonse. You understand why you have been summoned here today, yes?”

Alfonse keeps his eyes trained on the ground, praying that whatever Xander has planned for him will be over with quickly. "Yes "

“Good. Then I will not waste your time or mine with idle words. Come.”

Alfonse approaches reluctantly. He can feel goose pimples rising along the back of his neck.

“Stand tall and straight,” Xander orders. “I won’t punish one who cannot bear it nobly.”

There’s nothing noble about this situation, Alfonse wants to say, but he doesn’t, only corrects his posture.

“You are not to speak for the duration of your punishment unless you are given express permission by me to do so. Otherwise, you will nod your head if you understand. Am I clear?”

Alfonse grits his teeth and nods.

“Good. Now, before we begin, I will give you a chance to tell your side of the story. Do not expect it to change my mind on whether or not to punish you, but I believe it is only fair to offer you the chance to explain yourself.”

Alfonse almost laughs at such false diplomacy. “It’s as I said, Prince Xander. If you knew all that has been done to me these past weeks in spite of my best efforts to broker peace, then you would not have the stomach to punish me in this or any capacity.” Xander regards him with a slight frown but does not speak. Alfonse exhales softly. “That is all that I have to say to defend myself. Please, let’s begin and have it be done with.”

Xander gives a curt nod. “Very well. Then, divest yourself of everything but your smallclothes.”

The order doesn’t entirely surprise Alfonse, though he’s alternately grateful and perversely disappointed that he’s been permitted to retain his smallclothes. He can’t imagine what Xander might say on perceiving the state of his privates, and yet perhaps such knowledge would get him to call off the punishment and round on Veronica instead.

Still, despite his previous steadfastness, Alfonse finds it difficult to obey. He hesitates, hands on the hem of his tunic, fingers curled inward. Doing it for Veronica is one thing--loath as he is to admit it, he’s used to her seeing his naked form now. But Xander is a horse of another color. Not only is he one of the most powerful heroes ever summoned to Zenith, he’s also the crown prince of the most militaristically advanced kingdom in all the discovered worlds. Furthermore, unlike Princess Veronica, he is well-known the worlds over for his virtue and honor. There’s something distressingly emasculating in being forced to bare himself to a man of such caliber.

“See?” Veronica complains from her spot on the sofa. “He doesn’t obey!”

Alfonse jolts. His fingers shake, and yet he cannot urge them to continue in his undressing.

“Then I will show you how to properly punish such disobedience,” Xander says. “Prince Alfonse. Put your hands behind your head. I will only ask you once, and if you do not comply, prepare to face the consequences of your obstinacy.”

Slowly, still trembling, Alfonse raises his hands and folds them behind his head. Xander approaches behind him, and he stiffens.

“If you cannot bare yourself like a man, then you will be undressed like a child.”

He feels hands at his hips as Xander pulls down his trousers and orders him to step out of them. “Arms up.” Alfonse lifts his arms into the air, and Xander draws his tunic up and over his head. It’s infantilizing, just as he said it would be, and now Alfonse wishes he’d just done it himself. As soon as his tunic is off, he wraps his arms around himself, shivering from something other than the cold. Even though his bandages are still in place, he’s terrified Xander might see the impression of the rings through the cloth.

“Arms at your sides,” is his next order, and, unwillingly, Alfonse drops his arms.

“You seem to have some misconceptions about your place here.” Xander walks around him, and Alfonse averts his eyes again to the floor in a show of submission but also because he can’t stand to meet the gaze of the man who reduced him to this state. “You are not a prince here and have no authority associated with your former title. You are Princess Veronica’s prisoner and therefore must abide by her rule. Your inability to do so is what has landed you with this punishment today.”

Alfonse discreetly fingers the silk of his drawers, praying the cage does not show through the front. Xander notices and snaps, “Are you paying attention?”

Alfonse nods emphatically.

“Then repeat back to me what I just said.”

Alfonse licks his dry lips. “That I am not a prince here but a prisoner, that I must abide by Princess Veronica’s rule, and that it’s my disobedience on this point that has gotten me into trouble.” Truthfully, he’s sick of abiding by much of anything anymore.

“Good. Do not make me doubt that you are paying attention. I won’t always ask you to clarify. Now”--Xander directs his attention to Veronica’s corner of the room--“go stand facing that wall with your hands against it and your head bowed between your arms, and we will commence with your punishment.”

Feeling hollow in the pit of his stomach, he trudges over to the spot indicated and stands with his palms pressed flat against the cool marble and his head dipped between his shoulder blades.

“Fifteen lashes with the birch,” Xander says. “You will take them quietly and without complaint. Do you understand?”

Alfonse can’t keep tremors from racking his body as he nods his head. Veronica laughs.

“He’s shaking!” she says with obvious relish.

Xander doesn’t engage her, just comes up behind Alfonse and runs his hand down his shoulders and back. “Loosen up. This will be easier on you if you don’t tense your muscles.”

As if it’s that simple, Alfonse thinks bitterly. He tries to ease the tension in his shoulders, but the knowledge that he is presently going to be whipped does little to aid in that endeavor. He hears the swish and crack of the birch in the air and flinches. A moment later, with another crack, hot pain sears across the length of his back, and he gasps before he can stop himself.

“One,” Xander says. Before Alfonse can recover from the first blow, Xander lays another along the curve of his spine. “Two.”

Alfonse grits his teeth, pressing his palms firm against the wall in an attempt to steady himself, but he’s shaking so hard that it scarcely makes a difference. The bandages around his upper torso offer little in the way of protection.

“Three.”

He has to bite his tongue to keep from screaming, emitting a strange sort of gurgling noise instead. The skin on his back feels bizarrely thin all of a sudden, as if the whip were peeling it back, layer by layer, with each lash.

“Four. Five.”

He pushes his head up against the wall between his hands, biting harder on his tongue until he can taste blood. His hands start to slip down, and Xander clicks his tongue.

“Hands back up against the wall.”

Alfonse’s palms are sweating as he returns them to their spots in line with his head. His arms feel heavy like lead, but Xander just resumes counting.

“Five. Six. Seven.”

Alfonse lets out a small squeak and swallows a sob. His back is blazing, and each lash feels like a blade cutting him to the bone. He feels a bit of moisture slinking down his spine, and he can’t be certain if it’s blood or sweat. Whatever it is, it doesn’t give Xander pause.

“Eight. Nine. Ten.”

He can’t hold back his scream on ten. His nails curl and cut into his palms as he clenches his fists so hard they begin to shake on their own.

“That wasn’t very quiet!” Veronica sings out, but Xander, mercifully, makes no mention of it, even as Alfonse continues to shriek for eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen. He collapses against the wall midway through the count, and by the time the fifteenth lash meets its mark, he’s fully on his knees, chest and hands and head pressed up against the wall. His cheeks are wet with tears as he cries softly, silently begging Xander not to hold it against him.

“You ought to punish him for being a naughty boy and not following the directions,” Veronica says, and for the moment, Alfonse has an almost overpowering urge to strangle her.

“Never punish him for such frivolities as that, Princess Veronica,” Xander says sternly. “His was not a deliberate disobedience.” To Alfonse, he says, rather gently, “You held up better than I expected you would for your first time. Well done.”

Alfonse is struck by the dissonance of being praised for enduring punishment, but he makes no comment on it.

“Now, come.” Xander directs him to a spot immediately before Veronica’s sofa, and with some difficulty, Alfonse manages to pull himself to his feet and stagger there, his back ablaze with pain. “On your knees--good, just like that. I’m going to ask you a few questions. You may answer with your voice. Do you understand?”

Alfonse stares at his knees. “Yes.”

Xander pauses. “If you were one of my servants, I would have you address me as your master. However, since you are not and are in fact royalty yourself, then I suppose I can allow it to slide. In any case, let us continue. Tell me, why are you here today?”

Alfonse bites his tongue, swallows his pride; the pain in his back forces him to. “I misbehaved,” he says.

“Hm. In what way did you misbehave?”

He hates this. “I disobeyed Princess Veronica.” He can’t even remember what, specifically, this punishment is for. Soiling himself? No, she told him to do that. Speaking out of turn? Yes--she grew cross with him for speaking as a dog. He restrains a shudder at the memory.

“And do you regret your actions?”

No, he thinks. “Yes.”

“Do you understand why you had to be punished for your actions?”

No. _No._ “Yes.”

“You understand it’s for your willful disobedience to the princess?”

 _No_ , _no_ , _no_. “Yes.”

“And do you believe that this is a fair punishment for your disobedience?”

No. “Yes--no--I-- _no_!”

Xander pauses. Alfonse sucks in an unsteady breath, flattens his hands against his thighs.

“What was that?” Xander asks dangerously; he’s feigning ignorance, giving Alfonse a chance.

“I-I said no,” Alfonse repeats, lifting his head to stare Xander in the eye. His teeth are chattering, but he clamps down his jaw to hide it. “This _isn’t_ a fair punishment. In fact, I don’t think I deserve to be punished at all--and neither do you, Prince Xander.” He should stop this; nothing good will come of it, of his indignation. “My only offense is speaking out of turn while under torture. Surely you can’t see that as justifying punishment!”

“Oh, what a naughty, naughty boy you are!” Veronica calls from the couch. “Prince Xander, you ought to punish him very severely for his transgression!”

“Be silent,” Xander thunders at him. His face is hard and cold as ice, and Alfonse shrinks back under his gaze. “Princess, bring me that leather strap there.”

Alfonse starts, tries to scramble to his feet, but Xander catches him round the neck and drags him to the footstool.

“No, no-- _please_!” he sobs. “I can’t take any more of this!”

Xander flings him to his knees and lays him across the familiar upholstered surface on his stomach. Veronica approaches from behind and hands off the leather strap to Xander, who uses it to bind Alfonse’s wrists together behind his back.

“Thirty blows for your continued insubordination,” he declares, and Alfonse cries, squirming from where he’s pinned on the footstool. With his free hand, Xander peels his drawers down his backside, and Alfonse desperately squeezes his legs together to hide the cage, trapped uncomfortably between his legs and the footstool.

“Hopefully, _this_ shall be enough to convince you to behave.”

Without further warning, Xander brings his hand down hard against Alfonse’s bare backside with a brutal force far surpassing Veronica’s. Alfonse shouts, the sting pulsing outward through his body, but Xander continues on methodically, beating him rapidly but steadily as if he were engaged in a task no more noteworthy than peeling potatoes. The thick, fleshy noises make Alfonse sick almost as much as the pain that floods his senses. He starts to feel raw after only a few hits, but Xander doesn’t stop, doesn’t acknowledge his desperate, distressed cries, not until he’s gone and administered all thirty blows. At least, Alfonse _assumes_ he’s given them all; in his hazy, delirious state, he can’t be certain of the number.

It doesn’t take more than half a minute for Xander to deal pain that will last for days, if not weeks. Alfonse groans and cries as Xander sits back to catch his breath. Once he has, he rests his hands on his bound wrists.

“Let’s try again. Was this a fair punishment for your disobedience?”

This time, Alfonse has no problem ardently nodding his head. He feels Xander remove his grip on him, and then the bindings come lose. He stays where he is, however, until Xander gives him the order to stand and pull his drawers back up. He manages the latter before the former, and thankfully, Xander doesn’t question it. Once he gets back to his feet, pain shoots from his backside and down to the tops of his thighs, and he struggles to keep his footing.

Xander brings over a wooden stool from the princess’s writing-desk, removes its cushion, and sets it in front of him. “Have a seat.” Alfonse collapses onto it on his backside and whimpers. “Straighten your back. Stay still. Princess Veronica, I see you have some rope there. Bring it here, if you would be so kind.”

Alfonse flinches as his wrists are bound in front of him, then tethered to one leg of the stool, preventing his hands from traveling any higher than his navel and forcing him to stay seated _._ The seat is hard and uncompromising to his aching bottom, and he tears up from the pain, biting his lower lip to keep himself quiet.

“You are to sit there silently until you’re ordered to do otherwise,” Xander tells him. “Do you understand?”

Trembling, Alfonse nods his head.

“Good. Princess Veronica, with me. I’ll set a servant to watching him to ensure he does not disobey.”

Veronica looks reluctant to leave but eventually sits up on the sofa and follows after Xander. “Do not set him with one of his favorites--he has two in particular he’s quite fond of, and I know they will help facilitate his disobedience!”

“I will send one of my own servants. Both of my personal retainers have been captured by Askran forces, but I still have a good many men under me whose loyalty is unquestionable.”

Alfonse hears the doors close behind him, and their voices fade. Alone, he slumps his shoulders and finally lets his tears fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder why Alfonse is thinking about Zacharias so much lately? ;3
> 
> This chapter marks the halfway point of the story! The next chapter is one I've wanted to write for a long time, so please look forward to it! =)


	12. Contrary Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfonse attempts to do something about his situation and only makes everything worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooo, what's this? It's not dead? Nope. Just been super busy (like, suuuuper busy) with some pretty big projects for some clients as well as stuck on this chapter _forever_. Like, this thing was getting so big I ended up just splitting it into two chapters, and neither of them is the one I said I really wanted to write last chapter. That's for the _next_ -next chapter. (Yeah, these two chapters were supposed to be nothing more than a brief, smooth transition _into_ the promised chapter, but, well...)
> 
> Anyway, enough out of me. I won't ask for your forgiveness, just take this meaty chapter and enjoy!
> 
> \----
> 
> This chapter contains some pretty heavy psychological abuse and manipulation to go along with the physical/sexual abuse. Please read responsibly.

By the time Prince Xander and Princess Veronica return for him, Alfonse is ready to beg and grovel at their feet. He jerks his head around on hearing the door open and tries to stand up from his stool only to be thwarted by his bonds. His backside, since gone numb, begins to throb again at the sudden movement, and the lash marks on his back ache with the strain.

The guard sent to watch over him stands at attention as Xander and the princess enter.

“Your report," Xander says, glancing at Alfonse. “Has he behaved adequately?”

“Sir, the prisoner has been compliant with your orders.”

Xander looks pleased by this, and Alfonse is relieved by the guard’s honest account. Veronica, on the other hand, frowns.

“I don’t think he has learned his lesson quite yet,” she says, and his relief quickly turns to dread. His back and bottom hurt enough; he can’t bear much more of this.

“Let us first ask what he thinks," Xander says, and he turns from her. “Prince Alfonse. Do you understand why you were punished today?”

Alfonse swallows a great gob of sticky saliva that has been forming in his mouth all this time; his pride goes with it. “Yes," he says. "I will not disobey Princess Veronica again. You have me at my word, Prince Xander. Now please, I beg of you"--his voice cracks--"release me from these bonds.”

His hands have grown cold from the tightness of the bind, and it’s an indescribable relief when Xander steps forward and unties them, helping him to stand. His legs are unsteady, and the change in position irritates his wounds anew. He keeps his mouth shut.

“As I told you before, Princess Veronica,” Xander is saying, “you mustn’t overdo a punishment. Consistency is key--should he continue to misbehave, then you will gradually increase the severity of his punishments until he finally learns.”

“I suppose if it’s coming from you, then it must be true, Prince Xander,” Veronica says without sounding particularly convinced. “But what is to be done with him now?”

“Now, he will be permitted to rest in his room and reflect on his misdeeds.”

It is, rather grimly, the best news Alfonse has heard all day. He’s so weak and sore that Xander must redress him and then assist him bodily in walking back to his room. Once there and as promised, he’s left to his own devices. But rather than “reflect on his misdeeds,” he casts about his room for something else to occupy his mind. He ends up hobbling to the shelf, gathering some books at random, and pooling them on his bed without the slightest intention of reading them; frustrated and hurting and resentful, he’s in no humor for that now. Instead, sitting awkwardly on his knees on a stack of cushions, he begins to tear out the pages and fold them together into the rough shape of a blade with an unexpectedly sharp point. He hardly has a reason for it; he knows he won’t assault Veronica, not when she holds not only him but his entire kingdom hostage. Still, he derives a modicum of satisfaction from his craft. It gives him some semblance of control after his ordeal, and it’s darkly reassuring to know that, should the time ever come that he well and truly falls into despair, he will have a way out--on his own terms.

The click of the bolt sliding across his door startles him, and he hastily stows his project underneath his pillows. But it’s only Gordin who enters bearing a dinner tray.

“You’re awake,” he says, sounding immensely relieved. “Your Highness, I--I worried about you since the moment I left you!”

Alfonse makes a noise in his throat. “There is no need for that. I am alright.” He doesn’t want Gordin to see him in pain, but when he slides off his bed to take his meal, he stumbles and has to limp the rest of the way to his desk, leaning heavily against it while trying to reestablish his balance.

“Sire, you’re injured...” Gordin, perhaps reading the atmosphere, seems hesitant to even acknowledge it, and yet to ignore it would be even more egregious.

“It isn’t anything severe,” Alfonse lies, equally reluctant to discuss the matter. “I can--handle this much.”

He’s tired of being so vulnerable. Gordin has only the best of intentions--he knows that. But he doesn’t want to be the victim anymore, the helpless damsel always in need of rescuing.

And he understands, finally, that nobody _is_ coming to rescue him.

“I brought you some wine I took from the kitchens,” Gordin says uncertainly, setting down the bottle. “In case you were in pain…”

“That was thoughtful of you." Alfonse allows him to pour a goblet full. Before he brings the vessel to his lips, however, he pauses. “Forgive me, Gordin. I’m not in the best of spirits at present.”

Gordin bows his head. “I take no offense. I--would you prefer that I leave?”

Alfonse hesitates. “No, I--I cherish your company more than you can know. After my punishment today, I’m simply... out of sorts."

"Disillusioned" would, perhaps, be the more apt word for it.

"Well," he adds, reluctantly, "I've been thinking that perhaps I should just--I should submit myself to the princess after all. That is, no more endeavoring to resist her humiliations--I’m too tired for it now, and what have I to show for it? I would be better served conserving my energy for a battle worth fighting, and this one simply...”

He trails off. Perhaps it’s a sign of weakness, but he no longer has the stamina to safeguard his dignity with the pretenses of obstinacy and dismay. In fact, he hasn’t in some time, and so it comes as something of a relief to finally admit it.

He expects Gordin to attempt to dissuade him from his line of thinking, to urge him to maintain hope in this hopeless situation. But instead, he furrows his brow, presses his mouth into a thin line.

“Do whatever you must to stay alive,” he says after a moment. “Sire, you are no good to your people or yourself if you are dead or despairing. And you needn’t keep up appearances for me, if such a notion has been restraining you. After all, I know all too well what it's like to be stripped of all dignity."

His voice takes on a sudden dark tone, and his mouth twists into an uncharacteristic scowl, and Alfonse can't bring himself to inquire further. He thinks of the unusual scar seared across Gordin's breast and abdomen and tries not to consider what must have left it there.

"Take heart, milord," Gordin is saying now, his light tone restored, "for I will support you no matter what you decide." He blushes then, rubs the back of his neck. "Forgive me, I--that's usually a title I reserve for Prince Marth--though I think it fits you quite well, too, Prince Alfonse."

Alfonse smiles meekly, a little embarrassed himself. "You do me a great honor by the comparison," he says, "though I don't deserve it. In any case, you needn't fear. I've come this far already. I have no intention of giving up now."

Still, he must steel himself for it--for his absolute submission to Princess Veronica. It takes him the greater part of the next day just to consider his options and then, on concluding he has no better recourse, all of the next morning to work up the courage to summon the princess to his room.

After several aborted attempts to attract the attention of his guards, he finally pushes himself to ring the little bell on his windowsill. The sound is like a death knell, and he waits in anxious anticipation. A few moments later, the bolt on his door slides back, and a guard steps in.

“What is it?” he asks warily.

Alfonse swallows, but his throat is dry. “I would be very much obliged if you could relay a message to the princess for me."

The guard raises his eyebrows. “What for?”

“Inform her that I have a matter I wish to discuss with her. She will understand.”

The guard looks dubious but agrees and departs to fulfill the task. Alfonse isn’t sure when exactly to expect the princess, so he arranges a nest of pillows on his bed and lies flat on his stomach within them with a book he can't seem to read more than a page of.

Within the hour, Veronica arrives, looking rather confounded but intrigued nonetheless.

“It’s unlike you to summon me on your own,” she says. “I suppose you’ve missed me? Or is it your punishments that you miss?”

“I assure you, I take no joy in them," Alfonse says coldly before catching himself. "I called you here because I have something I wish to say to you. Something you'll find very agreeable, I think."

“Oh?” She looks pleased in a way that instantly puts him on his guard. “And just what did my lovely prisoner-prince wish to say to me that is so very agreeable?”

“Exactly that, Your Majesty," he says. "That I have been acting out of my place. That I am a prisoner under your rule and ought to conduct myself as such. I wanted you to know that henceforth, I am finished resisting--and that I will submit to your authority"--he lets out a shaky breath that she must hear--"as I ought to have done from the first moment I entered your custody."

Veronica blinks a few times in quick succession. “I don’t believe you,” she says after a moment. “You’re plotting something in that clever head of yours, aren’t you?”

“No, Princess. On my honor as a prince of Askr, you have my word." He crosses his arm over his chest to place his hand upon his heart, an Askrian gesture of fealty now profaned by willful deception. "I will do all that you command of me so long as no harm comes to another by my actions.” What do honor or pride matter now that he has been reduced to this? Things more corporeal--his country, his people, Sharena, Anna, Kiran--mean far more to him than his silly pride.

"You're certain about this?" She doesn't believe him.

"As certain as I've ever been about anything, Princess," he says, another lie.

She gives him a queer look at that, but it’s soon replaced by an unpleasant smile. “Well? Shall we test your newfound resolve?”

Alfonse lowers his eyes to the floor, a deliberate show of submission, as his heartbeat accelerates. “If you wish, Princess.”

"I _do_ wish. If you're so set in your resolve, then I wish to see it for myself." She points deliberately at him. "Strip for me. Now!”

It's expected, and Alfonse scarcely hesitates this time. He takes the hem of his tunic into both hands and tugs it off, tossing it to the floor. The cool air makes his wounds ache. He stares straight ahead of him, over Veronica’s shoulder, as he pushes his trousers down and steps out of them. Then, missing only a beat, he pulls down his drawers and removes those, too, along with his silk stockings. He stands as tall and steady as he’s able while her eyes move over him, consuming him.

“Turn around."

He does. She runs her hand along his back, and he flinches. “That looks quite sore.” She keeps touching him, thumbing the welts. “Does it hurt?”

"Yes, Princess..."

“I suppose you don’t want that to happen again, hm?”

“I would rather it did not.” He hesitates before adding, “I will behave myself to ensure that it does not.” It’s as much a suggestion for her as it is a warning for himself.

“Hm,” she says, noncommittally. “Get down, then. On your knees and forearms.”

“On the floor?” His eyes flit to the bed.

“Yes. Hurry up."

Alfonse lowers himself into the desired position. Veronica kneels beside him and continues to stroke his back, heedless of his shaking arms and ragged breaths. She traces her fingers along the lash lines, even presses her nails into them when that fails to elicit a severe enough response. He bows his head to his hands out of pain more than submission, but she hums appreciatively anyway.

Eventually, she sits up on her knees and leans over his collarbone. “Like paint on a canvas,” she sighs down his neck, and then: “Next time, _I_ will be the one to paint you.”

He feels her tongue, warm and wet, and her hot breath against the skin beneath his shoulder blade. She licks along the tracks of his wounds, forcing down his shoulders under her palms so that she might reach more of him. He shivers as her saliva cools on him, making his wounds burn like cold fire.

When she withdraws, she’s red-faced and giddy, sweeping her hands down to his backside, rubbing it. The pressure is enough to trigger the soreness in his bruises there. He manages to smother a groan into his fist when she suddenly lifts her hand and slaps him.

“Your bottom is such a lovely shade of rose!"

He’s certain his face is now a similar lovely shade, but he refrains from responding, distrusting his voice.

Veronica plays her fingers across his backside, gliding them along his opening, feigning like she’s going to breach him. "I wish that I could love you properly--the way a princess ought to love a prince.” She heaves another sigh that morphs into a nervous giggle. “But such a union could never be borne between one of my station and one of yours. Besides”--she pauses in her rubbing--“I know one that loves you more than even I.”

He can’t fathom who she means. A latent dread coiled tight in his gut tells him that it’s Kiran, that she’s been made aware, somehow, of the true nature of his feelings toward his tactician, the feelings he struggles to acknowledge even to himself. Still, that can’t be possible; even if she were to discern his feelings for Kiran, there is simply no way she could know how Kiran feels in return.

She doesn’t elaborate on that, though, just sits back on her knees and orders him onto his as well. When he complies, she reaches out her hand and scrapes against his left nipple with her thumbnail.

“They’re healing well.” She slips her finger into the ring, gives it a gentle tug; he tenses, but she releases it soon after. “Do you like them?”

He sets his jaw, and nods.

She looks on him in amusement. “Don’t lie to me. I know that you hate them.”

“Then why did you ask?” He stares at her very seriously, trying to discern her thinking from her furrowed brow.

“Well,” she says after a time, playing absently with the chain between them, “I suppose I wanted to hear you say it?”

Of course it’s something as simple-minded as that. Anything, any small thing to degrade him, any way she can exert her power over him, she will utilize it if it brings her even a sliver of delight.

“Then I despise them," Alfonse says, and it comes out stronger than he intends; he tempers his voice when he adds, "Is there anything else you would like for me to say, Princess?”

For a few moments, she remains speechless, clearly caught off-guard by his bold honesty despite her demand for it. Then she rises, and he keeps his gaze steady on the floor. “Come kiss my feet like a good and loyal servant or I shall punish you for your arrogance!”

He crawls forward without even attempting to unpack that and lays a kiss on each of her boots, then stays bowed at her feet, waiting in silent anticipation.

“You’re a fool if you think that I trust you, stupid prince.” She lifts her right foot and places it over the back of his head, guiding it to the floor. He doesn’t move. She applies pressure. He grits his teeth but doesn’t move.

“I could collapse your skull right now, you know. With my boot, certainly, but also with magic so powerful it could melt you into nothing more than flesh and blood and bone.”

He doesn’t move. He never doubted that she could.

“But where’s the fun in that?”

Even pressed against the plush carpet, his head is beginning to ache; she’s holding it down now with almost all her weight.

“Usually, traitors in Embla are tortured for intelligence before being hanged, drawn, and quartered. But you, Alfonse--should I catch _you_ conspiring against me, I have a far more suitable punishment in mind. Would you care to hear it?”

He would not. “If it pleases you, Princess," he all but whispers.

“You would do well to heed my warning, prince,” she says, perhaps sensing his dishonesty, “for I daresay you shall find no joy in what I would have done to you. First"--she stomps down on his forehead with her heel, eliciting from him a muffled grunt--"you would be bound so severely that you could but scarcely move. I would keep you confined somewhere dark--in the dungeons, perhaps--with so little human contact that you would surely go mad. Every day, you would be beaten and bled within an inch of your life till you begged me to deliver death unto you. But I would not be persuaded to kill you then. Oh, no, I would have far worse in store for you."

She leans over him, shifting the pressure of her foot to his scalp. "I think I would have you emasculated, your nasty little boy-parts severed from your body and returned to your kingdom--to your dear sister and that troublesome tactician, who would wonder over what has become of poor little Alfonse, the once-great prince of Askr.

"Perhaps I would then have you given over to the palace guards to be enjoyed as they would for a fortnight. And they _would_ quite enjoy you, you know, a pretty toy like you. Should you return from the ordeal--for they are rather lamentably rough with their playthings--you would not be as you were when you went away. You would be dirty and damaged. And I would lose all interest in you, for who could love a disgraced prince whose body has been used as that of any common whore?

"And after all is said and done, my dear Alfonse, I would do you a great service by ending your miserable life by my own hand. Then I would be free to conquer Askr, just as I and my father have always desired to do."

She can't hide the exhilaration in her voice when she finally lifts her foot and says, "What do you think of _that_?”

Even if he dared to, he would not raise his head for the pain pounding through it. He feels like he wants to vomit. He almost does, but it ends up in his mouth, and he has the sense and reflexes to swallow it back down, choking a little.

“Hm? What was that?”

“I-I understand, Princess,” he manages at last, even though he doesn’t. He will never understand such violence and cruelty. “I will not plot against you. It would be a breach of our contract besides.”

“You must show me with your actions and not your words," she says, and he senses her kneel beside him. “Lift your head.”

He does. Her face is bright red with bashful excitement and fervor, creased with a wicked smile. She smooths his hair from his face; he lets her. “Sit on your bottom,” she orders, and he does, wincing at the pain. “Now spread your legs.”

With some reservation, he parts his knees.

“Wow!" she exclaims, leaning between them. “Look how small it is when it’s been caged like that for so long!”

He flushes. She reaches forward and experimentally squeezes his testicles. He jolts but resists the urge to slam his legs shut.

“Ah, so tender!" She brushes her finger up along his length. "It's getting a little wet, too. Were you excited at the thought of your punishment?” She lifts some moisture from his tip and studies it for a moment. Then she holds her finger out to him. “Suck.”

He parts his lips and takes her finger between them. He licks his familiar taste, sucking and laving her finger. He wants to gag, or cry, but he does neither, and when Veronica withdraws the digit from his mouth, he only stares blankly ahead, trying without much success to imagine he were elsewhere. She uses her finger, damp with his saliva, to trail between the bars of his cage, the edge of her nail sending sensations up through him that make him shudder and jerk his legs closer and closer together until she scolds him and orders them apart again. The cage has gotten painfully tight around him, chafing against the sensitive skin it guards. His testicles are full and heavy with unspent seed. She notices and caresses them gently with her fingernails.

“Beg for it,” she says.

“ _Please_ ,” he begs. She squeezes his swollen sac, and he gasps, lurches forward.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Please… I want you to… t-to touch me.”

“Hm. Not good enough. I don't think you _really_ want it."

She isn't entirely wrong. "I _do_ ," he insists anyway, because he knows if he doesn't get relief from her, he won't get any at all. "I _want_ it. Please, Princess, I--I n-need to be touched!"

"Tell me you're a filthy whore, then. Beg me to milk your slutty cock.”

“P-please," he stammers, "I-I'm a filthy whore. S-so please milk my--m-my slutty cock, Princess!" The vulgar words make him blush, make him sick to his stomach with shame.

Veronica only responds by tracing tight, maddening circles around his sac. "'Filthy whore' is right. You deserve to be raped, don't you?"

Despite the heat between his legs, Alfonse goes cold, hesitates. "I..."

Veronica slaps his face, drawing his breath from him. "Tell me you deserve to be raped!"

The words this time aren't merely humiliating--they're frightening, perhaps even--his heart shudders in dread--a suggestion. And yet as the princess raises her hand to strike him again, he hears himself, inflectionless, and as if from far away: "I... I deserve to be... raped. Princess."

Veronica lowers her hand and smiles her twisted smile.

In the end, she doesn’t allow him a release anyway. He’s frustrated and disturbed and humiliated but not surprised.

“Get dressed,” she says, wiping her hand on his shin and rising to her feet. “We are going to take a turn about the gardens.”

He moves with difficulty; each brush against his privates stimulates him almost beyond measure. It’s hardly relieving to be back in his clothes; he feels exposed and aroused all the same and tempted, above all his principles, to rut himself like an animal against anything that will stay still long enough for his purpose.

Veronica, meanwhile, summons a guard and bids him fetch the restraints, and when the man returns with the items, she attaches the familiar golden leash to Alfonse's collar and then directs him to present his hands. The guard manacles his wrists and secures them with a length of chain to his collar, restricting them well above his waist.

“I won’t have you touching yourself like some beast,” Veronica explains.

"Of course," Alfonse bites out.

They depart from his room and make their way down to the ground floor and into one of the many corridors leading out to the gardens. Before they get far, however, a voice calls out, stopping them.

“Where are you going?”

They both turn to see Bruno leaning up against the wall, arms crossed. Veronica narrows her eyes.

“I could ask the same of you,” she says, stomping up to him; with the leash in her hand, Alfonse has no choice but to hastily follow behind. “This morning, I saw your horse saddled and rations prepared!”

“You saw correctly.”

 "And--and you were going to leave me without even a word?" she cries. "I looked all over for you in desperation, and not once did you appear before me to offer some explanation! I thought you had gone already! Hold this,” she adds to Alfonse, handing over the other end of his own leash. Awkwardly, he accepts it.

“You never answered my question,” Bruno says.

“And you have yet to answer either of mine!” Veronica steps up to him and takes fistfuls of his cloak into her small, shaking hands.

Bruno sighs. “You know very well why I must go. I was on my way to inform you now.”

“I don’t believe it! Why are you always, _always_ leaving me alone?”

“You know that I resent separation as much as you do, Veronica.”

Her bottom lip begins to tremble. “I don’t believe it,” she repeats, this time in a whisper, and Alfonse looks away. She reminds him of Sharena then, from shortly after their mother became indisposed, and he hates that he almost feels sorry for her.

“I’m sorry,” Bruno says, and he sounds very much as if he means it. “Now answer my question. Where are you going with Prince Alfonse? I hope you weren’t thinking of leaving the palace. I strictly forbid it.”

“Hmph! I’m only going out to the gardens! I-I don’t need you here! I have Alfonse to keep me company. Right?” She turns to him sharply.

“Of course, Princess,” he says, snapping his attention back to her.

“You had better mind your place, prince,” Bruno says severely. “If I return to find you’ve done some harm--”

“I’m in no position at all to be acting out,” Alfonse interrupts, gripping his leash tighter to his breast. “I understand that better than anyone. You have nothing to fear.”

Bruno eyes him suspiciously. “I don’t trust you.”

“You don’t need to; the circumstances speak for themselves, do they not? I have far too much at stake to risk defying the princess.”

Veronica tips his chin up on her fist, smiling. “That’s right. He’s perfectly tamed now--docile as a lamb and with no more of that wild defiance.” She strokes his jaw with her thumb. Even that slight contact sends sensations tumbling down to his groin.

Bruno snorts. “Or perhaps biding his time, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.”

“If so,” Veronica says, “then he will suffer dearly for his mistakes.”

Alfonse feels his heart plummet at those words. She snaps her fingers, and suddenly, it’s as if his lungs are collapsing and all the air is being excruciatingly pressed out of them. He crumples to his knees, holding his throat around his collar as his eyes bulge and his lips form soundless pleas. It only lasts a few moments, but the aftereffects linger like a phantom. When Veronica restores him, he feels so lightheaded that he nearly faints, catching himself at the last moment on his trembling arms before he can hit the ground.

Veronica bends down to pick up the leash he dropped in his panic, then stands towering over him. “But we don’t have to worry about that because you’re going to be good, right, Alfonse?” She tugs on the leash, urging him to his feet, and shakily, he obliges.

“Y-yes, Princess,” he gasps, still holding his throat, but her attention is already back on Bruno.

“If you mean to leave me, then go already! I have some reading to catch up on. Come, Alfonse!” She continues down the corridor, and he weakly follows behind her just within the distance of his leash.

“Wait,” Bruno says suddenly.

“I’m not listening,” Veronica says without turning around.

“I need to speak to Prince Alfonse privately for a moment.”

That gets Veronica to stop dead. “Whatever for?”

“I want to ensure that he knows his place.”

Alfonse doesn’t at all like the sound of that. Veronica looks conflicted herself before grudgingly handing his leash to him again. “Go. Do not get any ideas of acting up or you will lose even the scant freedom to leave your room.”

"Understood, Your Majesty,” Alfonse says tersely. He retraces his steps. Bruno doesn’t take his leash, just turns and starts off down the corridor. With a heaviness weighing on his heart, Alfonse follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be out... gods, I hope soon. It's mostly written, I just need to fill in some blanks and edit, edit, edit.
> 
> Um... Sorry again for the delay! I do intend on finishing this fic (and then doing some sequel/companion pieces). It just may take a ~~little~~ while. Anyway, prepare for more smut next time, and, uh, let me know if you're still reading this. ;;


	13. Fatal Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfonse loses hope and Gordin is a bro.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweet boy needs care badly. ;(
> 
> \----
> 
> Warning for more sexual and psychological abuse as well as self-harm. This is not a happy chapter.

Bruno leads him to a small closet at the end of the hall and directs him in before closing the door behind them--a worrying sign.

“I assure you, I understand my place perfectly well,” Alfonse begins.

“Shut up,” Bruno says, cutting him off, and Alfonse averts his eyes out of habit now. “It is not Veronica’s safety that concerns me.”

“Then are you saying that you trust me?”

“No. I’m saying I don’t believe you pose a significant threat to her.”

Alfonse isn’t sure whether to feel relieved or indignant at that.

“In any case, there is another whose security _does_ worry me.” Bruno looks on him stonily, and Alfonse feels his face drain of color.

"She--she means to kill me.” He touches his forehead to his hands, suddenly dizzy.

“I don’t know _what_ she means to do. Frankly, I don’t think she does, either. I’m only expressing my fear of leaving you alone with her for an extended period of time.”

“And yet you will leave anyway.” It comes out snider than Alfonse intends, but he can almost swear Bruno flinches.

“This isn’t a decision I make lightly. I have no choice but to leave.”

Alfonse sets his jaw. “No... You have never been my protector here, and you have no obligation to concern yourself with the wellbeing of a captive. If I were in your place, I would not, either.” It’s a lie, but pretending otherwise makes him feel somehow more composed.

“I have no desire to see you dead,” Bruno says sharply. He shakes his head. “I don’t. I truly don’t.” Curiously--worryingly--he sounds more as if he is attempting to convince himself than he is Alfonse. “I have appointed Prince Xander to be in charge of your security. He will keep an eye on Veronica, but he cannot monitor her at all hours. You must take some personal responsibility. If she begins to act odd or excessively violent, you will make a fuss to attract the attention of others. Veronica will not dare to grievously harm you before the eyes of her subjects.”

“And if she takes my making a fuss as an act of insubordination?”

Bruno sighs. “I did not say it was a perfect solution. But you now have more motivation than ever to be on your best behavior.”

As if her continued threats and tortures were not motive enough, Alfonse thinks sourly. “I will conduct myself appropriately," is all he says. "Is that all that you wished to confirm?”

“Hmph. You ought to be grateful for the warning. Our--Veronica’s affliction is not to be taken lightly.”

Alfonse clenches his hands into fists around his leash. “Perhaps I oughtn't to ask, but it would appear this is getting dire, and so I will do it anyway: What is it that ails you both?”

Bruno is silent for a long while.

“I think I’ve quite earned the right to know,” Alfonse presses, “considering your princess might very well kill me at a moment’s notice and without provocation.”

“A curse,” Bruno says at last, “that afflicts the royal bloodline and has done for hundreds of years. And for both our sakes, I must find some cure. No matter what it takes.”

“Then you are royalty,” Alfonse says softly, only partly surprised. “How should I address you?”

Bruno raises his head, eyes darting around uncertainly. “Bruno, imperial prince of Embla. I am the bastard child of the late emperor and my own dearly departed mother… and I am Veronica’s elder half-brother.” He opens his mouth like he means to say something else but closes it again without another word.

“Prince Bruno… I suppose that oughtn’t to surprise me much at all, and yet…” Alfonse frowns. "But why have you played the part of Princess Veronica's servant all this time?"

"It is easier that way--I can remain by her side without besmirching her name as the future ruler who harbors a banished, illegitimate prince."

Banishment would certainly explain why Alfonse has never heard of any Prince Bruno in Embla’s royal family. "To where were you banished?"

Bruno hesitates noticeably. "To the kingdom of Nifl, northeast of your own Askran Kingdom. My mother and I were imprisoned here in Embla on the emperor's orders for some time, she awaiting execution--though she later died in confinement, alone. I would have met with the same fate but was spared by my young age."

Living in Nifl would explain Bruno’s proficiency in ice magic, but something in his tone suggests he isn't being entirely honest. Regardless, Alfonse doesn't press the point. "I'm sorry," he says instead. "It seems you have suffered far more in life than I had surmised."

"Hmph. Don't expect to curry favor with me with your niceties and platitudes."

Alfonse bristles. "Are you so unused to genuine sympathy that you see some ulterior motive lurking in every kind word?"

That gives Bruno pause for a few moments, and then: “Regardless, I don’t need to hear it from you. And that is beside the point.”

Alfonse stares at him in bewilderment. "Really, I can't understand you at all! You simply defy comprehension!"

"What is so difficult to understand? I merely don't want sympathy from an Askrian princeling, especially one who has allowed himself to be degraded thusly!"

Bruno gestures with his hands, and Alfonse instantly grows hot, caught off-guard by the sudden attack.

"I," he says in an attempt to defend his honor, but no words spill forth.  After all-- _degraded_ \--yes, that's what he is. Bruno isn't wrong. Since arriving here, he has been bound like a slave and beaten like a dog, his body converted into an amusement to be whored to the princess or by the princess on some whim or fancy. He no longer has any honor to defend, not with the rings pierced through now constantly erected nipples to show his ownership or the cage locked over his intimate part that presses a telling outline into his trousers. He has asked for degradation, _begged_ for it, even, just this morning. You deserve to be raped, Veronica had said to him, and he had repeated her, unwillingly, perhaps, but he wonders now if maybe she was right to say it.

"I do take pity on you," Bruno says, and Alfonse jerks to attention again. "So I will render some aid."

He approaches, compelling Alfonse to take a step back.

"No," he says, hopelessly resisting what he knows Bruno will do anyway. "Don't come closer!" He's mortified by his body, by the heat already filtering downward.

Bruno, of course, ignores him. He clasps their hands, and Alfonse feels a sensuous chill jolt into his stomach from somewhere near his groin.

"What are you doing?" he weakly demands, and is met only with silence. His body is so sensitive in this state that he can’t suppress the moan that rises in his throat when Bruno starts to slowly massage his hands. His touch feels like fire, and Alfonse can't stop his penis from trying to rise, only to be held back by its tight confines. His breath hitches. He's tempted to beg like this morning, beg for contact against that spot, but he manages, somehow, to swallow it back. Bruno’s hands slide up to the cuffs around his wrists, and he whines at the sensation of skin on skin.

“What are you doing?” he repeats, more panicked now as his arousal heightens, and again, Bruno doesn’t answer, just touches the chain securing his wrists to his collar. Tendrils of ice begin to creep up along it, winding around it until it’s completely encased. With a snap of his fingers, Bruno shatters the ice and the chain with it, and Alfonse jumps back into the wall. Flustered, he nevertheless lowers his hands to his waist, but despite the throbbing there, he doesn’t dare touch himself.

Bruno, for his part, appears strangely out of breath. "There," he gasps. "Go--relieve yourself!  _Silently_! No more… No more of those--those noises you're making!”

Alfonse presses his hands into fists, cheeks hot both at the suggestion and the accusation. “I-I’m not making any noises!” he says without much conviction.

Bruno growls, and Alfonse shuffles uneasily to the side, eyeing the door, his only escape from this sequestered little room.

“Don’t lie to me, you perverted prince! I can smell your arousal from here!”

Alfonse balks, but before he can say anything in his defense (as if there _were_ something), Bruno is before him again, pushing up against him, breathing raggedly into his ear. Alfonse starts when he feels a hand slip between his legs, finding the head of his penis and squeezing it around the plug.

“Stop-- _stop_!” he yelps, struggling to pull away as his vision flickers to black from the pain. “What are you--it _hurts_!”

“Do not... make me regret leaving you... alone... with my sister,” Bruno pants, and it’s as if his mind is entirely elsewhere while his hands move of their own accord. “D-don’t… make… me…”

His breathing is clipped and rough, his face awash in sweat. There's something primal there, something dangerous. In desperation, Alfonse tries to push him off. Bruno retaliates in half a second and lunges back at him, pinning his hands between their heaving breasts and kissing him violently.

For the moment, Alfonse is stunned and lets him. The sensation is utterly bizarre, wholly unexpected, and yet he leans his head back anyway, submitting to his violation. Bruno begins to employ his tongue and teeth, forcing his way past the barrier of their lips and sucking and biting at his tongue. Alfonse groans, tries to tear his face away, shoving with his trapped hands, but that only makes Bruno bear down harder, cracking the back of his head against the wall, immobilizing him until he has no choice but to let him have his way. Rough hands snake under his tunic, scrabble over his body. Fingers find his nipples and play with the rings, twisting and flicking them.

“ _No_!” he pants, managing to break their mouths apart. He chokes down air but is left breathless again when Bruno begins to tug at his rings. A wild arousal grips him only to give way to a pain so intense it causes tears to leak from his eyes. “Stop! I beg of you, stop this!”

But Bruno doesn’t. He claims his mouth again while working his nipples between calloused fingers. He sticks a knee between Alfonse’s legs, jostling the cage. The stimulation is finally too much; Alfonse moans into his mouth as hot seed squirts from his tip in restrained bursts, dribbling down his pant legs in unsatisfying conclusion. Bruno chews his lips, his tongue, keeping him from breathing until he starts to feel lightheaded. Running out of air, Alfonse sags against the wall, eyelids fluttering shut, and it’s only then that Bruno releases him, pulling back and laboring for breath himself.

Alfonse is dizzy. He uses the wall behind him to regain his balance, steadying his shaking legs. It isn’t his first kiss--Zacharias claimed that long ago--but the two experiences are so fundamentally different that he can’t help but think they’re beasts of entirely different natures. There was no love in Bruno’s gesture, just desperate, clawing, violent passion.

“What--what is the meaning of this?” he demands when he trusts himself to speak again, shielding his mouth behind his hands under the guise of wiping it dry. His lips are trembling, and he won’t let Bruno see that, either.

The man in question looks startled himself, clutching his forehead and gritting his teeth. “L-lately,” he says, and stops. Alfonse stares expectantly while a latent anger begins to coil around him, squeezing like a serpent. “Lately, I cannot determine if I want to--to kill you or to-- _kiss_ you.”

The serpent unhinges its maw, shows its fangs, and pierces skin. "Just what manner of absurd motivation is that?" The agony of rage is red-hot, poisoning him. " _Tell me_!"

“It is what it is."

Alfonse is nearly overcome now, with fury and humiliation. “How--how _dare_ you?” He’s sick of it, sick to death. His dignity is in tatters, not just with the princess but now with this man, too. “I--I am a prince, and yet you would take advantage of me and use me like this, as if I were your--” _Whore_ , he almost says, and can't get himself to. "Giving myself over to the princess, I expected better of your--your _barbaric_ kingdom. I expected some measure of human dignity, some scrap of empathy, and received none. Even as a hostage, I should have been treated--"

“Consider yourself very fortunate that this time, my impulse was to the latter and not the former,” Bruno cuts him off. He wipes his brow, glances back to the door. “I won't hear any more from you today. You're lucky I have weathered your smart remarks thus far with patience. Go. Now. Do not speak of this to Veronica. I ordered you to go!” he adds in a growl when Alfonse remains fixed to the wall.

“You’ll find I’ve gotten quite good at following orders of late,” Alfonse snaps on his way out. He barely knows where his sudden burst of courage stems from, but he’s so overwhelmed at present that he can’t find it in him to care. In fact, he can't manage to care about much at all anymore.

Veronica, as can only be expected of her, brings him back down to his reality. She is waiting for him where they left her. She lifts herself onto her toes to peer over his shoulder as he approaches and frowns.

“Where is he?” she asks. “What’s happened?”

"He's gone now--and I hope he never returns to this place!" It spills forth before he can stop himself, and Veronica doesn't miss a beat before hauling back her arm and slapping him so hard across the face that, a stupefied moment later, he can feel something wet and cool trickle down from his nose.

"Twenty-five lashes on the bottom with the birch rod tonight! And if you speak that way again, then you shall get fifty more between the legs!"

"F-forgive me," Alfonse grinds out, suddenly sobered. "I hardly know what came over me..."

"Get on your knees if you mean to apologize!" Veronica says, and he does, bowing his head.

"I humbly beg your forgiveness, Princess," he says, affecting composure. "I... I won't petition for leniency." He knows her well enough that he doesn't expect to get out of his birching; he may as well take measures to try to soften the blows.

"You had better not," she says, "for we both know you do not deserve it! Now--rise and take down your trousers. I shall teach you a lesson in humility you won't soon forget."

Alfonse feels his heart stumble.

"Here, Your Majesty?" he asks, mostly just to give himself time; he knows she would never make such a demand without meaning it.

"Where else, you fool? Do it now! Drawers, too! Or would you prefer the fifty lashes there after all?"

His hands fall to his waist in response, and he undoes his buttons. He doesn't look as he slides the fabric down over his hips, pools it at his ankles. His drawers follow with more resistance, but her threat is enough to keep him in compliance, and quickly.

"Good. Now sit and spread your legs."

Even though his back is up against the wall and the princess is obscuring his form from a frontal view, he's still very much visible from both ends of the corridor. Should any servant or guest chance to walk by now, he will be entirely exposed.

He leans back against the wall and spreads his knees anyway.

Glancing down only briefly, he sees it's a mess. He's sticky with thin, milky-white fluid and more than a trace of blood--Bruno must have damaged him internally when he squeezed him against the plug, which explains the burning all up through his most sensitive part. He withdraws his gaze, nauseated, and stares instead past Veronica, at the expanse of marble wall behind her.

"Disgusting," she's saying, looking him over. "Simply vile. I don't understand how you _still_ manage to do that even with that wretched thing locked up!"

"Forgive me," is the only thing, in his daze, that he can think to say.

"Must I cut it off? Well?"

"No, I--please... I will control it better." He doesn't know _how_ when he's treated this way, but if it's what she desires to hear...

It isn't, and his cheek, already visibly bruised, is struck again, jerking his head to the side.

"Shut up. I didn't give you permission to speak!"

He keeps silent this time, not even daring to lift his head back up. Veronica is quiet, too, for a while, watching him, perhaps waiting for him to do something for which she can punish him. When he doesn't, she takes a fistful of his hair and yanks his head up. Disoriented, he looks into her eyes and then hastily downturns his.

"I'm giving you permission to touch yourself for the moment," she says. "This is a part of your punishment. Make that thing hard again. Accept the birching I will administer to you tonight. Then you shall be forgiven."

She lets him go. He looks down between his legs, then away. He doesn't want to see it let alone touch it. He stares off to the side as his hands meet in the middle, struggling to find purchase between the bars of the cage. It isn't pleasurable--it hurts more than anything. His hands are wet with a damp heat that lingers in the pads of his fingers like hot ash. He feels his movements as a strain in his lower half and forces himself to keep going. He thinks of being whipped there instead and keeps going. It doesn't feel natural anymore, doesn't feel like his body. He works mechanically until he reaches a painful tension, and then Veronica swats his hands away and says, "It had better be kept restrained this time!"

She bids him to do up his trousers again, and he does, scarcely recognizing that they are in a hallway, that he might conceivably have been seen here. But he wasn't, and he doesn't want to think of the alternative.

"Clean up your hands," she orders.

"How?" he asks.

"My dear Alfonse, you ought to know how by now!"

He does know, and so under her watch, he lifts his hands to his mouth and licks the blood and seed away.

"Good boy," she tells him, pinching his ear. Then she jerks on his leash, clipping his breath. "Now _walk_."

 

She birches him in her sitting room after a long afternoon spent using him as her footstool. He doesn't let himself cry, which he can tell disappoints her, but she does not possess the same physical endurance as Prince Xander and so cannot continue the beating past thirty-five strokes (ten extra for spilling his seed in the middle of it). She humiliates him to make up for it, forcing him to clean up his mess with his tongue, slapping his face until his head rings and his bruises darken, ordering him to prostrate himself with his legs spread and his backside lifted while she teases a feather along his crevice. Throughout it all, he does not protest and tries to fancy himself stronger for it.

Gradually, the numbness fades.

When he's finally returned to his room in early evening, it's habit that draws him to his bed. It's habit that bids him to cover his face with a pillow before he sobs so that his guards won't hear. When he finds his paper blade, long after he's stopped crying, he passes it between his hands until he works up the resolve to wield it proper. He examines his left wrist, chafed raw, the color of a bruise. The skin is thinner than the paper. The point will penetrate it easily. He wants to try to see just how easily.

He feels stupid and ashamed even before he does it. It's just a little crease of blood beneath his palm that runs down the whole of his forearm, but it feels like a betrayal. He wipes the blood away with a remote corner of his bedclothes and puts the paper blade back in its spot beneath his pillow.

He gets up and staggers to his window, looking down at the dusky gardens below. He's so frustrated, so impotent, that he almost punches the glass, then thinks better of it. He looks around his room and feels trapped, vulnerable. He goes to the bars and curls his hands around them and has to clench his teeth to hold back a scream. He looks at the little red slit on his wrist again, and this time, he can't restrain himself, can't keep his nails out of it, can't stop scratching at it and picking at it until it isn't a little red slit anymore, it's a big, gaping hole, and it's bleeding all over his arm, the bars, the floor. He sinks to his knees and cries again, this time loud and ugly and punctured by screams, until his throat hurts and his eyelids fall heavy with exhaustion.

He regrets everything. He regrets submitting to Veronica, regrets surrendering himself to Embla at all. He should have fought. He should have fought to his death, to his kingdom's death. It's what an honorable man would have done, what Father would have done.  _This_ was cowardly, an artificial way to preserve his own life to the benefit of none. No--not preserve it but merely prolong it; both he and his kingdom survive on borrowed time, and he has known it from the start. Kiran is a brilliant tactician, but tactics alone cannot overcome the sheer force of numbers stacked against him.

Alfonse is still on his knees by the bars when he hears the bolt being drawn. He doesn't look up when the door swings open, but he can see Gordin out of the corner of his eye, carrying in a dinner tray and something else--a satchel of a nondescript tan weave. To his surprise, Gordin doesn't say anything, just stands there for a few moments as if considering him. Then he unlocks the cell door, sets the tray on the writing-desk, and returns to where Alfonse has crumpled.

"Your Highness," he quietly says, indicating with his hands that he means to help him up. "By your leave."

Alfonse allows himself to be pulled to his feet, guided to the bed, and settled there on a pillow on the edge of the mattress. Departing for only a moment, Gordin returns with the satchel, drawing from it a handful of gauze, a jar of salve, and a roll of bandages.

"Your hand, Prince Alfonse."

Alfonse doesn't offer it, but he doesn't resist as Gordin gently outstretches it and begins to clean it with the gauze. He wipes the blood from his arm and even from under the nails of his other hand, meticulously cleaning until not a spot remains outside of the wound itself. The salve comes next and then more gauze and, finally, the bandages, wound snugly from his palm to the end of his wrist. The tenderness with which Gordin treats him and the deliberate lack of discerning questions almost bring Alfonse to tears again. He can't speak for fear that his voice will betray him, and yet he knows he ought to thank Gordin for his care.

They remain in silence for a long while, though, and Alfonse appreciates the time to compose himself as best he can. When at last he raises his head, he sees Gordin gazing out the window at the darkening skies, a faraway look reflected in the fog in his eyes.

"May I show you something, sire?" he says when he catches Alfonse staring, finally turning back around to face him. "Forgive me if it is improper, but it isn't anything you haven't already seen."

Numbly, Alfonse nods his head and is nevertheless shocked when Gordin lifts his tunic, exposing skin. Still, Alfonse watches as he traces a finger down and across his body, outlining the white scar there.

"You remember this." It isn't a question, and yet Alfonse finds himself nodding his head again anyway. Gordin catches his eye, then hastily drops his tunic and straightens it. "Only a few months after I enlisted in the Altean army and shortly before my liege was betrayed by one of his closest allies, my company was captured by the traitors while we were stationed at a remote fort at the border. Right under Prince Marth's nose, we were spirited off to an enemy prison camp where we were pressed into the service of our captors, forced to build forts and dig trenches and--and otherwise serve as diversions for them."

Here his face reddens, though Alfonse can't determine if out of anger or some humiliation unknown to him.

"I was and shall always remain loyal to Prince Marth. So you must understand my disgust at our former ally's betrayal. I was naïve, then, and in defense of the prince I loved as well as of my commanding officer, who was to be executed in front of us all as an example, I spoke up--and invoked the ire of the enemy captain.

"I won't burden you with the grim details, Your Highness. But suffice it to say that I was tortured mercilessly for my defiance for weeks on end. This scar"--Gordin traces it over the fabric--"is from that time. And it wasn't the worst of it. Sire, I... Back then, I wanted to-- _die_ \--and I _tried_ to die. Many times, I--I tried to take my own life--and was thwarted, if not by my captors then by my own cowardice."

"No--you were exceptionally brave," Alfonse says, breaking his silence. "To endure such treatment--"

But Gordin shakes his head.

"I assure you, I am not brave. Unlike you, Prince Alfonse, who gave up everything for his kingdom and his people, I endangered everyone for purely selfish reasons. Out of pride for my prince and my homeland, I spoke out of turn without considering the consequences--for myself or the others. And even though I meant every word I said, I regretted saying them not a moment after. Those are the sentiments of a coward who cannot even stand by his own principles. So I don't believe I was brave in that--I merely endured my captivity because I had no choice. It was by some caprice of fate that I was rescued by Prince Marth when I could only have hoped for the relief of death.

"But now here I am with you, Prince Alfonse, a prisoner once again but this time, far from hopeless--because of you and Prince Marth and all of my friends and comrades. I can't say what bravery is, for I don't know that I have ever possessed it. But sire, I _can_ speak to endurance."

Alfonse is quiet as Gordin approaches slowly and falls to one knee before him.

"I have no right to tell you what to do with your own life. I have no right and no desire to pass judgement upon you for exercising your own will. But whatever you choose, sire, I think you are owed some perspective." He dips his head and finishes in a shaky voice, "Forgive me if I have spoken or acted out of turn."

Alfonse doesn't know how to respond to such an emotional appeal. Never had he suspected the meek Gordin of having endured such atrocities, and learning it now makes him realize how uncomfortably sheltered he has been all his life. It's shamefully sobering.

"Gordin, please, lift your head," he says at last, and Gordin, with eyes very much full of life, does. "You do yourself a great disservice by kneeling to the likes of me. I am honored to have as a friend and confidante one of such strength of character as you."

Gordin blushes. "You're too kind, sire..."

"No. I speak only the truth. And I thank you for your perspective and your wisdom. I..." He stares at his bandaged wrist, wondering suddenly what it was he had been hoping to accomplish. "I don't _want_ to die." He drags his fingers over the neatly wrapped linen, realizing just how earnestly Gordin is trying to protect him. And yet...

"And yet I'm... _afraid_. Just staying alive--it's _painful_. In truth, I don't know how much more of this I can take. The things the princess does to me are... _shameful_. It--it's  _agonizing_!I underestimated her cruelty. She tortures me in ways I never thought possible. I can't _stand_ it! And yet... _And yet_..."

"You don't want to die," Gordin repeats, softly. "Nor did I. That's why I..."

Alfonse bows his head, but it does little to hide his tears. "Yes," he says, broken-voiced. "I know."

 

Gordin makes sure he eats something of his dinner and then stays with him until he falls asleep. Their conversations for the remainder of the night are gentle and abstract. Alfonse appreciates it more than he can express.

When he wakes the next day, it's of his own accord. The sun of late morning is bright outside his window. A breakfast of bread and jam, eggs, and orange slices has been laid out for him. His stomach is weak with nerves, but he musters the strength to force the orange slices and some water into it anyway to quell its growling.

His bottom is sore from his birching, so he retreats to his bed after and stretches out on his stomach. The wound on his wrist itches, and he has to resist the urge to undo his bandages to scratch it. He stares at the bloodstain on his sheets, a quarter moon shape with a spattering of blood-black stars around it. He puts a pillow over it to hide it.

Veronica arrives around noon, and he's sick with fear.

"Get up," she orders. He does, gingerly, approaching the cell door with a pronounced limp. She looks him over. "What happened to your wrist?"

"The skin is chafed and raw. From the manacles." It isn't a lie.

Veronica frowns, gestures for him to hold his other wrist out. To his small satisfaction, she flinches when she sees the red rings worn down into his flesh. "But why didn't you say anything?"

"I did not think you would care," he says bluntly. Veronica's frown deepens.

"Very well," she says at length. "I will have something done about this. In the meantime, you ought to rest. I fear I may have been too... overzealous with your punishment yesterday... Prince Xander will not be pleased... I will send that little servant you favor so much to attend you."

She departs after that, and it is as if a shelf of ice has melted inside of him. He retreats to his bed again, feeling the full weight of his exhaustion. Gordin arrives minutes later with a goblet of wine and a fresh roll of bandages.

"How are you feeling, Your Highness?" he asks with some reservation. "The princess ordered me here, so I thought that she had already seen you."

"She has," Alfonse says laconically, eyelids already drooping, and then, to put the servant at ease: "Nothing transpired between us. She seemed somewhat repentant regarding yesterday's punishment, and she ordered you here to try to win back my favor--as if she ever had it."

"I'm glad," Gordin says, letting out a breath, "that you have some respite. Considering her capricious nature, I think you will have a few days of rest, at least." He hands over the goblet. "Drink and be at ease. I will do up your bandages again."

Alfonse does, letting the alcohol roll over him in warm, loose waves. He doesn't watch to see what Gordin does to his wrist, even when it stings; he doesn't need another reminder of his weakness of last night, a weakness he still nurses far too close to the surface.

He finishes his wine, and Gordin finishes his wrist, and he curls up under his blankets, reveling in their softness, and slips easily into slumber.

 

It isn't until the next morning that Princess Veronica returns, and then it is only to administer to him his new restraints. She has a guard carry in two pairs of leather cuffs lined with sheep's wool and silk and fitted with iron rings for attaching and securing. She directs Alfonse to hold out his hands.

“These will remain on you at all times,” she says as she has the guard lock a cuff around his right wrist. It’s tight, but the padded lining is a relief from the cold iron of the manacles to which he is only too familiar.

The second cuff is placed rather looser over his bandages and the final two around his ankles. When the guard finishes, he retreats, and Veronica steps forward in his place to admire his handiwork.

“What do you think? I quite like the looks of them, really. And surely you find them preferable to your old shackles, yes?”

Alfonse rubs his right wrist, feeling acutely the tightness of the new restraints but appreciating their softness over the bite of the old ones. Still, he doesn't relish the idea of being in them constantly--which he's certain is what Veronica likes best about them without even taking into account their slavish aesthetic and connotations.

"Well?" she presses, impatiently. "Are they not more comfortable?"

"Yes, they are," Alfonse says. He can tell she wants him to thank her, but he won't of his own accord. Surprisingly, though, she does not force the issue and steps back after another few moments pass in silence.

"Rest," she says with a sigh, clutching at her temple as if with headache.

 

Things don't get better after that, but they don't get exponentially worse, either, as he had anticipated. To his own chagrin, he grows almost accustomed in the next weeks to acting as Veronica's slave. Though she rarely has occasion to harm him by virtue of his own misdeeds, his punishments remain constant as she invents infractions against him for her own pleasure. He’s grown accustomed, too, to her preferred method of discipline: The birching or paddling of his bottom, which feels to have reached a state of near-permanent soreness.

“Don’t be angry with me, Alfonse,” she tells him once after administering a particularly severe beating with a willow switch that leaves him sniffling, eyes awash with pained tears. She runs her hand along the welts, and he’s gotten very good at repressing his instinct to cower. “I'm only giving you what you rightly deserve.”

Due in large part to his newfound submission, she comes to see him as domesticated and so begins to bring him with her to meetings with her advisors and other high-ranking Emblian politicians, which he fast learns to dread. She presents him to them as if he were her maltreated servant, and yet she's firm to introduce him by his name and title.

"This is Alfonse," she says at the first such meeting while he stands behind her chair with a platter of sweetmeats, eyes downturned as ordered, legs shackled loosely with a golden chain he knows is just for show. "You may remember him as the former crown prince of Askr, but as you can plainly see, he now attends me as my dutiful servant. He has become quite docile under my handling."

She has him set the tray down on the little coffee table between her and her guests, forcing him to turn at an angle which reveals to them the left side of his face. His cheek is still heavily and noticeably bruised by her own hand, and he can hear her guests murmur in amusement at the physical marks of her "handling."

"Kneel," she commands after, and they verbally express their approval of his quick obedience as he lowers himself to one knee by her side, one arm stuck behind his back and the other held under his breast in servile fashion.

"You have him entirely under your thrall," one woman marvels. "I do wish I could see the look upon the late King Gustav's face if only he could bear witness to the wretched, debased state to which his own weak child has been reduced!"

Father, Alfonse thinks, and he almost loses his composure there. He manages to rein it in, trying to convince himself that all that he has endured has been for the good of his country, his people. But as ever, he cannot convince himself that his father would be in any way proud of him and what he has become.

His only time to himself is when he is returned to his room for the night whereupon he’s free to unwind from the stresses of the day. Usually, he reads to distract himself until Gordin arrives with his dinner, which he may enjoy in his company. There is still no word from Felicia, though she has been seen tending to her duties around the palace. Alfonse soon gives up hope of ever speaking to her again, to Gordin's dismay.

On the other hand, Prince Xander has taken up residence in the palace and comes to check in on him frequently. Alfonse won’t tell him much; there is nothing the Nohrian prince can or will do to protect him from Veronica’s cruelty. Another guard has taken on the responsibility of bathing him every other day as well as removing and cleaning his cage and depilating the area around his privates once a week. Alfonse is used to the indignity of it now, though he’s filled with shame at the eventual realization that he’s come to feel bare and exposed without the torturous contraption affixed to him.

Some weeks into Bruno's absence and Veronica's relative stability, he wakes in the middle of the night without immediately knowing why. Then the muted sounds of a struggle reach his ears from somewhere outside his door. He sits up in bed, wide awake now from the pressure of his heart straining against his ribcage. He hears a low groan--a man's. Then there's silence. He clutches his bedsheets harder between clammy fingers as the sound of the bolt being drawn back cuts through the quiet. He lowers himself to the mattress, arranges his bedclothes so that he can see without being seen. The door opens.

A figure steps in. It carries no light, and his own candles have long been extinguished. Still, it moves quietly, deftly forward with a practiced grace. It is only when his eyes have adjusted to the darkness and the figure approaches the bars that he is able to recognize it.

"F-Felicia!" he gasps, sitting straight up, struggling to get out of bed without aggravating his wounds. "Thank the gods you're alright! But--what are you doing here?"

"Prince Alfonse," Felicia says solemnly, her voice just above a whisper, and it's eerie to hear her so serious. She fumbles with a keyring and unlocks the cell door just as he approaches. But she doesn't enter. "Forgive me, milord," she says, "for what I must do."

It's only then that Alfonse makes out, in a glint of moonlight, the crimson spatters across her white apron and the silver of the dagger she holds raised in one hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely comments! Glad to know people are still reading. Stay tuned for the next chapter! <3


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